


Taming the Serpent

by PseudoLeigha



Series: Fall Back - 1940 [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (Bellatrix), (Tom), (everyone), /however/ could you tell?, A reviewer suggested the term 'sibling!Tomione' which I really like, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Child Abuse, Dumbledore's a dick, Except John McKinnon, Gen, Morally Ambiguous Character, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Sadism, The Basilisk may be OOC, Time Travel, Why can't I rearrange the bloody tags? Don't they understand how these things are used? Gah!, Yes - I have read HPMOR, also Tom, angst like woah, blood-siblings, he's legitimately a good guy, manipulative!Hermione, off-label use of legilimency
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-06
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-28 23:46:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 56
Words: 146,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5109896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PseudoLeigha/pseuds/PseudoLeigha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After an as-yet-unexplained magical accident, Hermione finds herself in the middle of the Blitz. With Tom Riddle. Who knows she's from The Future. He's bored, and she's interesting. She tries to make him into a functioning person. He tries to use her to take over the world. These are not mutually exclusive goals. M for language, references to torture. NO PAIRINGS, no smut.</p><p>Updates slowly, irregularly, and generally several chapters at a time, as I finish a section. Should be considered on intermittent hiatus, as I am currently focusing on the Mary Potter series. </p><p>Previously posted on fanfiction[dot]net as 'Fall Back - 1940'. Both sites will be updated as I continue the series.</p><p>Despite the fact that this is the last thing I'm moving from ff.net, it is the first fic I ever wrote. Please excuse the odd pacing and attention to weird details. I like to think my writing has improved since I started this, so perhaps when I get around to writing Part 4 it will be a bit smoother...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Preface

**Fair warning: this fic is moving very slowly, both chronologically and in my writing of it. I'm at ~320 pages and the end of our heroes' first weekend back to Hogwarts, and I'm currently dealing with a bit of writer's block on this story. Updates will be irregular (if they continue at all), and probably massive as I tend to revise as I work out more details to improve continuity, and would prefer not to continuously re-upload here.**

This whole chapter is an AN. Also, spoilers. Kind of. I guess. Maybe. Whatever. Story starts in the next chapter, so feel free to skip to that if you don't care about the background.

* * *

 

The Fall Back – 1940 Universe is… I suppose canon, more or less, until just after third year, with the addition of a scene somewhere in there where some seventh-year Ravenclaws make fun of Hermione for trying to cast the Patronus charm. In this hypothetical scene, Hermione, in a bout of hot-headedness, challenges one of them to a charm-casting contest and beats the older girl in front of her friends. The seventh-year Ravenclaws try their hand at pranking her with their new transport spell (trying to make portkeys more efficient?), cast on one of her books, and set to activate any time it's touched over the summer. Something went terribly wrong (or maybe right, if that's what the Ravens were trying to do) and Hermione is moved in time as well as space. I'm honestly not planning on fleshing out magical theory enough to explain it. Tl;dr there was a magical accident and in a million-to-one moment, Hermione goes time travelling and arrives unscathed, mind intact, 54 years or so in the Past.

I intended this to be a single point of divergence from canon, but things may be unintentionally inaccurate. I can be bothered to google random facts about 1940, but not re-read all the canon for hints about what the wizarding world might have been like in 1940. (As Tom would say, deal with it.)

Hermione is sent back to London in the summer of 1940. In this reality, the Blitz started in May of 1940 instead of September (because it was convenient to the plot) and in the chaos that is London under siege, another battered bombing victim with no family and "no memory" of what happened to her, Hermione is sent to Tom Riddle's orphanage (because it was convenient to the plot, and what are the chances of surviving a trip like that anyway? This little bit of synchronicity is the  _least_  unlikely bit of the setup). BTW, apparently more than half of the people, including schoolchildren, who were evacuated from the East End and much of Inner City London before the Blitz were sent back due to class conflict issues. Who knew? So it's not  _terribly_  unreasonable to think that Wool's would still be there.

Tom is 14. Hermione will be 15 in September (officially). He's bored and she's interesting. They decide to get her into Hogwarts. Hijinks ensue.

14-year-old Tom has never killed anyone (though he thinks he might like to), hasn't yet found the Chamber of Secrets, had not yet been fully accepted by his Pureblood year-mates as of the end of his third year, and therefore hadn't yet internalized their blood-purity ideology. 14-year-old Tom is kind of a creep, and is just barely pretending to be a functional human being. (Teenaged sociopaths can be a bit  _slow_  about that sort of thing.) He's pretty good at telling authority figures what they want to hear, but people who are living with him day in, day out? They know there's something off. He's definitely got a sadistic streak (which he knows is abnormal, but thinks everyone else should just deal), thinks sex is gross (there's like…fluids, and stuff), and (like most other 14-year-olds?) really wishes other people would just stop being  _so_ stupid _all the time_. He also knows a bit more than canon Tom might have about his own history, because in my headcanon, Divination doesn't suck, and scrying the past is easier than reading tea leaves. Also in my headcanon, fourth and fifth year would have been when Tom really came out of his shell, reinvented himself, and started amassing a following. I had the impression that much of it was based on his opening the Chamber of Secrets and proving himself Slytherin's heir. Before that, well… I'd expect him to be a smart but socially inept half-blood raised by Muggles in Slytherin, ie, bottom of the pack, regardless of his Parsel-speaking abilities.

Almost-15 Hermione is partly in shock, partly in survival mode. What would  _you_  do if you were dropped into the middle of the Blitz with a sadistic teenage sociopath who may or may not (now that you're there to mess up the timeline) be the next Dark Lord? What do you do if, in a moment of utter stupidity, you tell him you're from the future before you find out who he is? You're smart enough to figure out what to tell him to at least make him an uneasy ally, right? Right. So you use your knowledge of magic developed in the future as leverage, keeping him off balance by telling the truth and explaining things when you don't have to and trying to think like him (you just knew those psychology and social engineering books would come in handy some day) and never letting him know exactly where you stand. Irritate him constantly, and repeatedly demonstrate that you are smart enough that you deserve his respect.  _Make_  him relate to you as another human being. And then maybe spend enough time with him doing a few borderline illegal things (you don't exist for another fifty years, remember, and setting up an identity is… well, easier than expected, but not  _easy_ ) to realize that he's actually smart and sometimes funny and a little creepy and socially inept, but not outright terrifying or dangerous (Much. If he likes you.) and very enthusiastic about his favorite hobbies, like the descriptive linguistics of Parseltongue. Kind of like the (insane) little brother you never had. You have to take advantage of this situation and try to make your new BFF and his schoolmates a political opposition force to derail pureblood ideology and make a better future, right? I mean, the timeline was fucked as soon as you told Tom Fucking Riddle that you were from the future. Might as well have fun with it. Also, Almost-15 Hermione may be somewhat less enchanted with Dumbledore than her canon-counterpart. It's not that she has given up on trusting authority in general, per se (or she hadn't before she fell back to 1940), just that she's looked at the first three years at Hogwarts and decided that Dumbledore hasn't been acting very responsibly toward his students, and so shouldn't  _be_  the authority.

Bellatrix Black is an ickle firstie. (Because I can? I honestly don't remember how much older she was supposed to be than her cousins, but she is the oldest of her generation, and wizards are long-lived, so we'll just say Sirius' mum was his dad's second wife or something (I actually spent a stupid amount of time fiddling around with the Black family tree for this and writing out a tract on the Black family history from Bella's perspective. There may be an interlude chapter about it, just because). Because reasons of I wanted to see almost-12 year old Bella crushing on 14-year-old Tom [and so 15-year-old Bella and 17-year-old Tom might have a chance to get together eventually. No promises. That's a long way off, in any case.] because why not send the abused, masochistic, first-year pureblood princess with anger management issues after the sadistic sociopath who may or may not be the next Dark Lord? It's a match made in Hell. Amateur Psychologist and resident moral director Hermione is Not Pleased.)

Rated T for language, because I tend to swear and therefore so does Hermione, though I've tried to keep it in check for the native '40s residents. Also for references to child abuse, allusions of cannibalism, and bloody torture scenes (mostly scarification, or as Tom and Bella would call it, "art"). I'm American (as though this was not obvious) and therefore Britishisms will be used infrequently and irregularly, I'm sure. The perspective and pacing changes frequently, without warning, and in no real predictable way. Sorry. It makes sense to me.

Chapters 1-15 make up Part 1, from the time Hermione arrives in 1940 to the night before classes start for Fall term. (Autumn? Michaelmas? I honestly have no idea what the Brits call the term that starts the first week of September)

Chapters 16-35 make up Part 2, the first week (Monday-Friday) of September.

Chapters 36-45 make up Part 3, the first weekend (Friday-Sunday) of September.

The plan is for the (chronological) pace to pick up considerably after this point, focusing more on events related to the general plot, rather than characterization and world-building, as the characters will be established at Hogwarts.

I am not and will not receive any money for this work, etc., etc. You know the drill.


	2. Prologue: Highlights of Tom's First Year

Tom Riddle arrived at Hogwarts, foolishly thinking that it would be no different than the orphanage, that he would rise easily and naturally to the top of the heap.

He had sat alone on the train, reading his school texts and experimenting with his wand. Magic didn’t seem so hard, really. He was certain he would excel at it.

He had been sorted into Slytherin house, “home of the cunning and ambitious,” along with three other boys, who were already fast friends. Their parents knew each other, and so they had grown up together.

The first thing anyone had said to him when he took a seat at the long table in the Great Hall was, “Riddle? That’s not a _magical_ name, is it?” Tom was not given time to answer. Another student said, “No, it’s not. You a dirty half-blood, then, little boy?”

“Of course I’m not!” Tom said, instinctively defensive.

A girl, perhaps a few years older, snorted, “A half-blood _and_ a liar.”

After that, Tom was largely ignored. It was not an auspicious start to his Hogwarts career.

***

Tom was picking his way carefully along the edges of the Forbidden Forest, thinking vengeful thoughts.

The other three boys in Tom’s year were Malfoy, Black, and Lestrange, in order of their tendency to be irritating gits. All of the students in their year had classes together, and the four of them were always seated together, as the other houses were somewhat wary of Slytherins. Apparently as well as cunning and ambitious, they had a reputation for being sneaky, sly, and untrustworthy. As far as Tom could tell, they were mostly just a load of arrogant prats who couldn’t see greatness if it was waving a wand in front of their noses.

It had been a few weeks, and Tom could already tell that the rest of his year were idiots. They took ages to learn things in class, talked endlessly about Quidditch (which was admittedly interesting the first time he heard about it, but not enough to discuss _ad nauseam_ ) and the minutia of their own lives, and most telling of all, had begun to _ignore_ Tom.

The Slytherin boys were worse, though. They weren’t just idiots, they had to be mentally damaged somehow. Because just last night, they had found him in the Library, intent on some sort of mischief, no doubt, and started sending jinxes at him from the stacks. Nothing terribly dangerous, though he wouldn’t be surprised if their families had taught them worse – especially Black’s – Tom had heard of their reputation, now. But irritating things, that got him kicked out of the library for making a disturbance – as though it was _his_ fault.

Tonight, they would learn that such behavior was unacceptable. He had quickly found that no one here would obey his orders. The _best_ he could hope for was that they would laugh in his face. The others all knew more magic than he did, and it was darker, more powerful magic, too. And the dorm rooms were all individually warded, so taking them by surprise there was out. So he would have to be clever. Bedrooms were warded, but the bathroom was not. He just needed to find a snake.

***

Tom was in the House Library, reading a book of jinxes and dueling curses, when he heard a shriek from his bathroom.

He smiled, for the first time since he had come to Hogwarts. He had missed the sounds of children writhing in pain at his hand.

He stalked across the Common Room to see who he had caught. It was Malfoy, which was even better. He was the worst of the lot. The snake from the Forest left the blonde boy as soon as Tom entered the room, and coiled itself around his throat.

He whispered to it, “A job well done, my darling.”

“A pleasure, Speaker. Shall I return to the Forest? Or have you some other task for me?”

“You may go,” Tom allowed. Much as he would like to keep the snake, even the most docile became irritable after a few days living indoors. She tightened her body briefly around his neck, soaking up a last bit of warmth, before making her way back to the cold stones of the floor and vanishing into a crack in the wall.

The other first years, one of the prefects, and a few older students, as well, had arrived close on Tom’s heels, and had witnessed the exchange. The prefect was mostly concerned about getting Malfoy to the Hospital wing, but the others whispered among themselves, shooting unreadable looks at Tom, and the crack in the wall where the snake had vanished. He caught the words _Parselmouth_ and _Slytherin_ , and _do you think he?_

He smiled at Black and Lestrange as he swept out of the loo and returned to his book. They had seemed, he thought, to shiver slightly under his gaze. Good.

***

Tom rarely thought much about the overall success or failures of his actions, but he was beginning to think that revealing his ability to speak to snakes had been an ill-considered choice. On the one hand, all the Slytherins watched him somewhat warily, but otherwise left him alone. On the other hand, the entire school also knew, and had somehow decided that any time anything went particularly violently wrong, Tom must be to blame. It was April, and he had now been blamed for twenty-two different incidents. He had, though of course he denied it, been behind Maggie Prewett’s (thusfar) incurable boils, and Leslie Benton and Filius Locke’s idea to cover all the staircases leading out of the entry hall with oil, but the rest of the pranks and violent outbursts students had suffered this term were not his fault.

He slouched in an uncomfortable chair in front of Deputy Headmaster Dumbledore (the bloody arse) as the man interrogated him about his involvement in the lunchtime battle between the Gryffindor and Slytherin underclassmen which had prevented nearly half of them from reaching their first classes of Thursday afternoon. Tom was a suspect now, he thought, because he had somehow managed to become one of the usual suspects, and because he had steered clear of the insanity by being in the library at lunch and had subsequently _not_ been sent to the hospital wing, or arrived forty minutes late to Herbology. Personally, he suspected Yaxley, Weasley, and Pope, the Gryffindor fourth-years, of starting something with Bones and Goyle, because _they_ were really the ones who were always at each other’s throats, but _no_ , let’s bring in the _one_ Slytherin underclassman who had _nothing_ to do with it.

Dumbledore had stopped talking and was staring intently at Tom. Tom had not been paying attention. “I’m so sorry, sir,” he said in his best bored drawl, “Could you repeat the question?”

“Mr. Riddle, if you do not explain your part in this little fiasco at once, I shall be forced to give you detention, if only for your insolence.”

Tom glared at the professor, meeting his eyes in fury, thinking of all the things he’d _like_ to do to his fellow students (but hadn’t), and began to say that he’d had nothing to do with it, when there was a sudden stab of pain behind his eyes, and he passed out.

Dumbledore sighed. That was not the most graceful legilimency he had ever worked, but his shock at the things the boy was thinking of doing to the other children had been so extreme that he recoiled instinctively. Ah well. He’d send the boy to the hospital wing, and tell Kitty to keep an eye on him. The Slytherin Healer was so much better at dealing with the little hellions. He would far rather save his time for shaping the minds and hearts of those who were inherently _good_ …

***

_“Ennervate!”_

There was a middle-aged witch standing over Tom’s bed. She had a no-nonsense look about her, and wore the white trousers and short, fitted overrobe of a professional Healer. It was the most practical clothing he had seen any witch or wizard wear. He supposed he must be in Hospital. “What happened?”

“You passed out in Dumbledore’s office, and the bastard apparently thought I hadn’t enough to deal with today. You’re fine. Get out.” She turned away and was already working on the next patient, whose body hair had apparently been replaced by mushrooms.

Tom thought he rather liked this brusque woman, whoever she was. She was efficient, didn’t ask questions, and apparently disliked Dumbledore almost as much as he did. She was a bit rude, but he supposed she did have a point – there were at least twenty other students in the ward.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said to the woman’s back. He left the Hospital Wing and went to look up the hex that had been used on the student in the next bed. It had been an interesting effect.

***

Tom made his way from King’s Cross back to Wool's Orphanage, towing his trunk behind him. It was quite a bit heavier, now, than it had been at the start of term. He had learned rather a lot, and had been looking forward to applying his new knowledge over the summer, only to be informed that any underaged use of his wand outside of Hogwarts would result in Ministry intervention. He had, therefore, come up with a plan to do the second-best thing all summer, which was to learn more (and more powerful) spells, to use when he returned.

Perhaps the best thing he had managed to do all year, he thought, dragging his trunk on its castors over the uneven pavement, was the theft of a large number of heavy tomes which were currently signed out of the library under a number of different students’ names.

He grinned. He may not be able to use his wand, but he could still remind the other orphans why they had all feared him so before he left. Between that and the magic books, it would be a good summer yet.


	3. Prologue: Highlights of Hermione's First Year

Hermione Granger flounced angrily from her parents’ car into their living room. She would have liked to think that she _stalked_ angrily, but as her father had informed her just the previous week, eleven-year-old girls simply could not manage, on the whole, to look threatening enough for _stalking_. She threw herself mutinously into an armchair and returned to her book on Gottfried Leibnez, furiously ignoring her parents’ attempts to speak to her. She would, she thought, stop ignoring them when they stopped being unreasonable about the whole situation.

“It’s not that we don’t think you’re smart enough to move up a year, darling,” her mother was saying in what Hermione imagined was supposed to be a calm and rational tone, but really came off as being quite irritable and frazzled.

“No,” added her father, “We just think that Mrs. Anderson-Cooper made a few excellent points. I mean, would it really hurt to spend the next year focusing on making friends and establishing yourself among your peers, rather than pushing forward with the academics?”

Mrs. Anderson-Cooper was the guidance counselor for both the primary and secondary schools in their district. Hermione didn’t like her, and as such, she had not been invited to the meeting Hermione had arranged for her parents and the Heads of her former and future schools, but she had somehow been waiting when the Grangers arrived at two. Hermione thought that she would blame Headmaster Daily. Headmistress Smethwick didn’t know her well enough yet to have thought of it.

“I know you don’t believe us, Jeanie, but social skills can be just as important, if not more so, in the long run, than things you learn from books.” Hermione glowered. She hated the nickname, but she wouldn’t be lured out of her silence so easily. She had only been ignoring them for fifteen minutes, and that was including the car-ride from the school compound.

“If you don’t take the time to learn to relate to other people, I worry you’ll never be happy, Mine.”

“We both do.”

Hermione herself thought that happiness as a concept was vastly overrated.

“Besides, Mine, sweetie, what if there’s another incident? You know you don’t handle stress well, and after Christmas, well, your mother and I agree that it’s really for the best that you take it easy this next year.”

Apparently done for the moment, their word final, the elder Grangers retreated to the kitchen.

Christmas had been a nightmare. They had been at her father’s parents’ house for the holiday dinner, and the electricity had started acting up, the lights on the tree blinking and stuttering, _A Christmas Story_ cutting in and out on the telly. Hermione had _imagined_ (it had to have been imaginary) that the flickering of the electrics was in time with her breathing, and once she had realized that, that she had some measure of control over it, and then proceeded to have a complete breakdown as she found herself strongly _believing_ that she had the ability to control some aspect of the external world. That, she thought, was a sure sign that she actually was going mad, almost as sure as when she was alone and small objects that she needed, like pens or spare change, would seem to fly to her hand without her looking for them. Telekinesis wasn’t real. She didn’t have some kind of weird superpowers. She couldn’t affect the world around her with her thoughts, because _that was impossible_. She had to be hallucinating.

After Christmas, her parents had taken her to see a psychologist, who had suggested that they pressured her too hard to excel academically, to follow them into higher education and professional degrees. Hermione’s protests that she loved reading and learning were dismissed as the product of many years of conditioning (and her argument that if anything the Drs. Granger were a bit absent-minded and neglectful, not pressuring at all, was, she felt, deliberately misinterpreted). Dan and Emma Granger had not been happy to hear that their parenting was apparently to blame for their daughter’s apparent mental break over the hols, but had born up marvelously under the diagnosis, and had been trying to pay more attention to her and limit the “pressure” they put on her ever since. Unfortunately, this meant, really, that she was under a great deal _more_ stress than usual this summer, as she was constantly interrupted by her newly (overly) attentive parents, limited in the amount of time she was allowed to spend reading outside of school (her favorite activity) and instead was encouraged to “go out and play with the neighbors,” none of whom particularly liked that odd, bookish Hermione Granger. The feeling was mutual.

Quite suddenly, there was a knock at the door. Hermione ignored it, forcing her father to come get it himself. After all, it wasn’t as though _she_ was expecting anyone.

From where she was sitting, she could not see the visitor, but she heard the voice of an older woman say quite clearly, “Hello. Mr. Granger, is it?”

“Doctor, actually. My wife and I are dentists.”

“I… see. Well. My name is Minerva McGonagall, and I am the Deputy Headmistress of a very special school for gifted children. Is your daughter Hermione available?”

***

Five furious weeks of arguments, begging, and tears later, the Drs. Granger were finally convinced to allow their only child to move to Scotland for ten months out of the year to attend “Hogwarts,” the alleged school of witchcraft and wizardry. Not that any of them truly doubted anymore that magic was real – watching the rather stern Deputy Head turn into a cat in their living room was rather convincing, after all – they were just equally as concerned about their daughter going off to some boarding school full of magical children as they would be for her to move up a year. It would be, they thought, rather stressful. The Grangers wanted to keep their daughter closer to home.

In the end, a flurry of letters had been sent between Dan and someone called Aelia Gloryflower in the Department of Magical Education at the Ministry of Magic. These were followed by a very official missive from the Office of the Head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Underage Magic, explaining something called the International Statute of Secrecy and the legalities of being a magical citizen of the United Kingdom, and several more letters between the Grangers and Professor McGonagall. In the end, it was these, and not Hermione’s arguments, which convinced them that it was necessary for all children with magical powers to learn to control those powers, and that the easiest way to accomplish this, when magical children were born to non-magical parents, was to enroll them in a school such as Hogwarts. Hermione would be on the train on September the first.

Hermione, ecstatic, dragged her parents to the magical shopping center of Diagon Alley, as directed by a letter from Miss Florence Hardwicke of the Muggle Liaison Office, and spent the last two weeks of her summer reading every book she had been able to afford on the history and culture of Magical Britain, as well as, of course, her textbooks. Emma was rather put out that her daughter blatantly ignored her entreatments to go out and spend some time in the sun, but Dan sided with Hermione when she argued that it was just as important for her to know a bit about the magical world before she arrived as it had been for Emma to know a bit about France before their first vacation there.

Hermione promised to write them every week, and it was with somewhat heavy hearts that the Drs. Granger saw her off at King’s Cross station, watching her vanish confidently into the barrier between platforms nine and ten. Though they had their misgivings about the whole affair, they consoled themselves on the way home with the fact that there was nothing wrong with their daughter or their parenting at all, and Dr. Mikkaelson, the esteemed psychologist, had, in fact, been full of shit.

***

_What have we here? What, what, what indeed…_

_Who’s that? What’s going on? Is that… the hat?_

_Yes, dear, of course. Who else would it be? Now then… I see a great potential for loyalty and a capacity for hard work which would take you far in Hufflepuff…_

_How does this work? Were you a person once? How are you talking to me?_

_No, child, I was and always have been a hat. Ah, such frustration at not knowing… Rowena would have loved you. And you’d do well in her house as well…_

_You knew the founders? What can you tell me about them? I want to know everything!_

_Nothing, I fear. You must, after all, be sorted, yet. So, perhaps a Ravenclaw, but I see that simple knowledge is not enough to satisfy you. There is a deep drive to excel, in you, to be the best, which would serve you well in Slytherin. But you also have a great capacity for bravery, and a willingness to fight for what you believe in. You will, I think, encounter many trials as a muggleborn student in this school and beyond, and I can see you would meet them head on, fighting for your rights and those of children like you. _

_Muggleborn? Why should that matter?_

_Why indeed. Hmmm… Well, you would do well in any of the four houses, but to do the most good, I think it had better be GRYFFINDOR. _

***

“What kind of name is _Hermione_ , anyway?”

 _Better than Jeanie_ , she thought, listening to the blond-haired Slytherin boy as he followed her out of the Potions classroom. She timed the comment she threw over her shoulder so that he would not have a chance to reply unless he wanted to take a wrong turn and follow her away from his next class. “Shakespearian, and Greek before that. What kind of name is _Draco_? It doesn’t suit you at all.”

The blond-haired boy sputtered incoherently as she walked away. Really, _the Dragon_? What kind of idiots named a little blond ponce _the Dragon_?

She put the boy out of her mind as she made her way to the library – she had finished the two books Professor McGonagall (who seemed to have gotten rather fed up with her constant questions about how magic actually _worked_ ) had recommended on introductory magical theory, and was on the hunt for more. She really wanted to know how it was possible for a hat to speak to her inside her head. She was having the worst luck, though, finding something that she could actually understand. Nothing seemed to make any sense at all, and there had been a chapter in the last book about two and two making five.

***

Halloween was… not what Hermione expected, quite frankly, she thought as she left Charms. She had thought, perhaps, that the magical world would have some traditions of their own, but as far as she could tell, the only thing marking the day was a general increase in the number of pranks pulled by the Weasley twins, and the promise of a Halloween feast for dinner. She understood, of course, that it would be more than a bit rude for witches and wizards to dress up as ghosts or werewolves or vampires, when such creatures really did exist, but Halloween was an old, old holiday. She supposed she had expected that the wizards, who on the whole seemed to be stuck somewhere in the 1600s, would have some kind of rituals or something related to it.

Her musings on the nature of wizard holidays – were they even religious? – were suddenly and rudely interrupted by Ron Weasley telling Harry Potter loudly, in the crowded corridor, “It’s no wonder no one can stand her. She’s a nightmare, honestly.”

She felt tears welling up in her eyes, and rushed past the boys, heading for the nearest girls’ toilet. She knew Ron and Harry weren’t her friends, but she had at least thought they didn’t mind having her around. She’d never been anything but helpful toward them, or any other Gryffindors. She’d tried to keep them out of trouble with the flying lessons and that stupid “duel” with Malfoy, and though she hadn’t spoken to them much since they ended up in the third-floor corridor that was off limits, she didn’t think they hated her.

But apparently she was wrong. It was just like at home. She was weird, even among witches, for liking books and knowledge and being too clever by half. The only person who talked to her regularly was Neville, and that was because he had to. They worked together in Potions. She hated it. It wasn’t her fault she had a talent for magic and Ron clearly didn’t, even growing up in a family of all wizards. And she did try to help everyone else be as good as they could as well. It just wasn’t _fair_. She didn’t know what to do. She was clearly missing something, and she hated that feeling.

Her tears long-since spent, she sat in the loo, wondering idly if maybe she should try making friends with some of the Ravenclaws or Hufflepuffs. Apparently being in Gryffindor was all about breaking the rules in the name of adventure. Ravenclaws seemed much more her sort of person than the Gryffindors. But then they were all rather cliquish as well, and she hadn’t the foggiest idea how to get to know a person. Just walk up and introduce herself? She sighed. Dinner must have started by now. She had missed History of Magic, but she really couldn’t bring herself to care. Binns was a worthless professor. It had only been two months, and everyone already knew that, though she did take notes diligently nonetheless. It was the principle of the thing, really. She would catch up in the textbook. She should go down and have something to eat. But she really couldn’t bring herself to wander into the Great Hall late, and catch everyone’s attention. Maybe she could wait until people started leaving, and go grab some pudding?

For the second time that day, her musings were rudely interrupted, this time by a massive troll barging its way into the loo.

***

Hermione could not believe that she had just had to be rescued by two idiotic, albeit insanely brave, boys. It was as though she were some helpless girl in a storybook. Absolutely embarrassing, on her part, really. She had just been so _shocked_ , when the troll appeared, she had frozen. And been saved from nearly certain death by a pair of idiot eleven-year-olds who… apparently didn’t hate her as much as she thought they did.

“Why aren’t you in your dormitory?”

For a long moment no one said anything. She supposed the least she could do was take the blame, since they’d saved her life and all. “Please, Professor McGonagall, they were looking for me.”

“Miss Granger!”

“I went looking for the troll because I – I thought I could deal with it on my own – you know, because I’ve read all about them. If they hadn’t found me, I’d be dead right now. Harry stuck his wand up its nose and Ron knocked it out with its own club. They didn’t have time to come and fetch anyone. It was about to finish me off when they arrived.” Hermione did her best to look contrite. She certainly _felt_ embarrassed enough, even if she hadn’t really been quite _that_ stupid. She sneaked a quick look at the teachers. Professor Quirrell looked as though he might faint.

Neither Professor McGonagall nor Professor Snape looked like they quite believed her, though they were apparently going to take her word for it. Or at least Professor McGonagall was, and Professor Snape didn’t say anything. “Miss Granger, you foolish girl, how could you think of tackling a mountain troll on your own?”

Hermione thought this would be the first major thing she did _not_ write home about.

***

Harry was hundreds of feet above the ground, hanging on to his broom with one hand as it tried to kill him. Hermione seized Hagrid’s binoculars and quickly scanned the stands looking for… yes, Professor Snape had his eyes fixed on Harry, and was muttering non-stop under his breath.

Without stopping to think too much about what she was doing, she ran as quickly as she could to distract the murderous professor, knocking others aside in her haste, and not even stopping to apologize. When she was finally close enough, she crouched down behind him and sent her favorite new spell, the Bluebell Flames, streaking directly at his robes.

 _I’m not telling them about this one, either_ , she thought as the professor finally jumped. She swept the flames away from his hem, disappearing back into the crowd.

***

Hermione returned home for Christmas, and her parents were pleased to find that their daughter seemed to have relaxed a bit, and that she had many stories to tell them about her friends and their adventures (though nothing too dangerous). Perhaps, they thought, Hogwarts would be good for her.

The latter half of the year passed in a blur of finding useful spells and hunting for Nicholas Flamel in the library, of losing to Ron in Chess, and petty bickering with Malfoy and his two ape-like cronies. There were brief moments of terror in the form of dealing with Norbert, Hagrid’s stupid dragon, and subsequently serving their detention in the Forbidden Forest, of all places. It culminated in the discovery that Voldemort’s disembodied spirit was doing its utmost to steal the famed Sorcerer’s Stone, which was guarded by the Cerberus on the third floor.

***

Hermione stared at Harry Potter in disbelief. Between them lay a table with seven potions and a logic puzzle. Harry had just said that he would go on alone, to face the Dark Lord in the chamber beyond the flames. And all she could think was that he was going to die. She rounded the table and threw herself at him. He stiffened, as though he’d never been hugged before in his life.

“Hermione!”

“Harry – you’re a great wizard, you know.”

“I’m not as good as you.” That, she thought, was probably true, from a purely spell-casting standpoint. But that was not what made a person great.

“Me! Books! And cleverness! There are more important things – friendship and bravery and – oh Harry – be careful!”

***

It was only after Harry drank the potion she told him to and rushed headlong into the flames that she realized how lucky it was that Voldemort hadn’t re-arranged the bottles. And when Harry explained in Hospital that it had been Quirrell, not Snape, she was absolutely embarrassed at the logical fallacies that had led them to support the Snape Hypothesis. Oops.

Her only consolation was that exam results had been returned, and she had been at the top of the class – no one else could likely have done any better.

***

“Hope you have – er – a good holiday,” Hermione said, looking at Harry’s awful aunt and uncle.

“Oh, I will. They don’t know we’re not allowed to use magic at home. I’m going to have a lot of fun with Dudley this summer.” Harry’s grin, Hermione thought, was downright _wicked._

She did rather worry about what went on at his home. Some of the things he implied were… disturbing. But she allowed it to slip from her mind as she found her parents and they bustled her off to the car, chattering animatedly about final exams and the things she had learned, and carefully avoiding mention of anything deadly or potentially dangerous.

She wondered if it was perhaps a bad thing, that she had to edit her stories so thoroughly, lest her parents try to take her away from school, and uncomfortably decided that it probably was, but it didn’t matter. She wouldn’t risk having to give up magic for anything.


	4. Prologue: Highlights of Tom's Second Year

Tom had been correct, in his assessment that it would be a good summer, even without his wand. He could still do the magic he had always been able to do, could still make animals do what he told them, and could still make the other orphans hurt. He spent many a long afternoon with different children in the grimy back alleys of the East End, watching them writhe and scream, knowing that no one would care enough to come see what was going on. He dissected small animals in different ways to see how they were put together, and how long it would take them to die, and read about advanced transfiguration techniques and dark rituals using blood sacrifices. He thoroughly re-established his reputation among the orphans, and learned a slew of hexes and jinxes to use on the Slytherins who, last year, had proven such formidable opponents.

It was a nice change from Hogwarts, where that bloody jackass Dumbledore was poking his nose into everyone’s business, and Flitwick tried far too hard to be everyone’s friend. The only halfway decent professor, Tom thought, was Sedgwick, who was strict, but had a dark sense of humor and let the students duel each other in class.

He returned to school ready to take on the world.

He had not counted on taking on Madam Lyntz, the vampiric librarian, who had noticed over the summer that nearly three dozen books were missing from her library, and had set tracking spells to find them when the students returned. She was not pleased to find all of them in the possession of a single Slytherin second-year, despite their apparently having been signed out to a number of different students. She appealed to the Deputy Headmaster, and Tom had been given detention for the entire term – three nights and one weekend day for each book he had stolen.

***

Fall term passed in a blur of classes and homework, quick, brilliant battles with other students in the corridors, and work in the library, or the hospital wing, or, on particularly bad nights, with the House Elves, in the kitchens. The detentions had the unexpected advantage of putting him in contact with the elves, who were very helpful, outside of detention, and with Madam Turner, who, he thought, could be a valuable ally, if only he could convince her that he wasn’t really the troublemaker his detentions implied. Unfortunately, Madam Turner was a far more practiced Slytherin than he, and he utterly failed to convince her of anything. This was irritating, he thought, as he really _hadn’t_ done anything since school resumed (conveniently forgetting that pitched battles in the halls most definitely counted as _something_ in the Healer’s book).

Tom could, he found, hold his own against the other second-year boys now, though he could not beat any of them, at least not resoundingly enough to prove his utter superiority, especially when it was three on one. He outwardly adopted a semblance of having been defeated, and changed tactics. He branched out in his research, from the first topics that had interested him when he learned that magic was real (time travel, talking to animals, and his own family history – the older Slytherins had been right – Riddle was not a magical family at all, though Marvolo was a common name in several families, a few decades ago) and offensive spells to finding dirt on his cohort’s families and whether there was anything he might be able to use as leverage over them.

What he found was largely disappointing. The Blacks were dark as sin, but too smart, on the whole, to get caught at anything, and had more money and influence than God. The Lestranges were from France, originally, but had been in England long enough to be established as a “Noble” house, which as far as Tom could tell just meant “old money” and “politically powerful” since there was no Magical King to grant titles and such. They were closely allied with the Blacks, which probably meant they were dark as well, but they weren’t so… open about it. Malfoy was a Common family, which meant they didn’t have a seat on the Wizengamot, but all three of them were “purebloods” which meant they had only witches and wizards in their family trees for at least a few generations.

Tom found nothing to use for leverage, but he did stumble across a book on Salazar Slytherin, when he was looking up purebloods, which held the first mention he’d seen in almost a year of looking to _parseltongue_ , the language of snakes. Speaking it apparently was a sign that one was a blood descendent of Slytherin himself, which did rather explain what all the whispering had been about the previous year. This led, of course, to an absolute obsession with the Chamber of Secrets, which carried Tom through the end of term.

***

Tom stayed at Hogwarts over the Yule break, of course, and took advantage of the nearly empty castle to search high and low for the fabled Chamber. He almost didn’t notice when Grindelwald declared war on the International Confederation of Wizards by blowing up their Swiss headquarters on the Solstice. The continent was so far away, and so irrelevant to his everyday life, after all. By the end of the holiday, however, his obsession had faded in the face of what would obviously be a much more difficult task than he had anticipated. He was still certain that it existed, and that he would find it eventually, but he was able to concentrate on other things when classes started again. His evenings and weekends were free, briefly, for the first time in months, until professors Flitwick and Sedgwick realized this, and “invited” him to join the Dueling and Battle Magic Clubs. He started learning the International Dueling Confederation spells for the end of year Dueling Championship, and honing his skills in Sedgwick’s fifth-Saturday Exhibition Matches.

***

Leigh Teague wouldn’t stop whining. Every time Tom saw him, which was often, given their shared class schedule, he was complaining about something. His Potions mark, the bruise he’d gotten when he crashed his broom in Quidditch tryouts, the fact that he’d been woken up early by Fil’s owl tapping on the window, the difficulty of the transfiguration assignment. Today, rather than transfiguring his stuffed bear into a stuffed dog, he was complaining about how his parents hadn’t sent him anything yet for his birthday. His birthday wasn’t even until the end of the week, the prat.

Tom, bored after transforming his own stuffed animal, thought of a transfiguration he had read about over the summer.

“Want some help with that, Teague?” he asked loudly, and waved his wand over the boy’s bear, saying “convultus forma urcanis” but thinking “ _Animalimus Theraphosa”_ as hard as he could.

The stuffed animal turned into an enormous spider, and Teague, who had not quite realized what was going on until it was far, far too late, fell to the floor gibbering incoherently as it leapt for his face. Tom was amused. Dumbledore was not.

Tom was back in detention for another month, this time to be served entirely in the Hospital Wing, where Kitty Turner made him brew countless pepper-up potions, batches of bruise balm, and after a particularly brutal Quidditch match, three cauldrons of a blood-replenishing solution, just to top off her stores. He gathered that she was not amused, either, though she did admit that it had been an impressive transfiguration, regardless of the use to which he had put it.

***

On the orders of the Headmaster, Professor Horace Slughorn called each of the second-year Slytherins to his office one at a time to have a conversation about their grades, how they were fitting in, their potential career directions, and therefore the electives they would take in their third year. It was the Spring Equinox. Tom was at the top of his class, despite (or perhaps because of) the fact that he had no friends. He clearly was not fitting in well, in Slytherin, perhaps, Horace thought, because he was a bit _too_ Slytherin for the other boys in his year. He had never had a more evasive student interview. Nonetheless, his star second-year seemed to be more or less well-adjusted, and sufficiently content with the current situation.

Horace reminded the boy that Slytherin students would be responsible for their own room wards at the end of their third year, so it would be prudent for them all to take at least the third-year Runes course, as well as, perhaps, Arithmancy, which was always useful. The boy surprised him by insisting that he was interested in mind magics, and that he would take Divination as well as the other two electives.

Horace had expected that the boy would have ambitions to go on to be an auror, or perhaps a battlemage. Most of his students went into politics, but that was not as reasonable an ambition for an orphan half-blood. It wasn’t a career move he would normally push, but with Grindelwald on the rise, battle magic was a more valid specialization than it had been for decades. He had seen the results of the hall battles – there had been some impressive spellwork for a twelve-year-old – and he knew Sedgwick was impressed with the boy. He smiled to himself. If the child were to pick up mind magic as quickly as he picked up everything else, perhaps he would follow in Kat Turner’s footsteps, and join the Shadow Corp. The Ministry could always use more “problem solvers.” Tom, though, claimed that he would probably do a mastery in something, and then become a researcher or professor. He didn’t seem too worried about it.

Horace sighed. It really was too early, he thought, to tell where the boy would end up. Some were obvious, like young Mr. Parker, who was a Potions Master in the making, if he had any judgment, or Ms. Macmillan, who could argue circles around any of his colleagues, and was sure to end up as a barrister. But young Mr. Riddle was enigmatic, and excelled in all of his courses. Time would tell, Horace supposed, as he dismissed the boy and sent a note by elf to John and Amber to tell them they would have another shared student.

***

The Dueling Championship took place in the two days after exams were completed, but before the train left for London. Almost everyone stayed to watch. All of the competitors for each year faced off against one another, single elimination style. About half of each year competed, as one did not need to be a Dueling Club member to sign up. The first day was a series of quick eliminations until only four semifinalists remained for each year, the matches lasting only as long as the competitors.

The second day, with the poorer duelists weeded out, most of the school filed into the Dueling Arena to watch first the seventh-years, then sixth, and on down through Bobbie Rosier and Beth Selwyn competing for the first-year title.

Tom had been matched against Teddy Potter, then Fil Locke, and finally Billy James. James gave him a real run for his money. Tom got caught up in the match, and when he finally found an opening, he lashed out with the first spell that came to his tongue – “ _Nonnaso!”_

Billy James’ nose fell off, to gales of laughter from the spectators.

Tom was immediately disqualified for the use of a non-IDC spell, though he should have won the match. Tom swore at that moment that he would have nothing more to do with the ridiculously unfair Dueling Club, with its stupid, petty rules. He left before the inter-year championship round, and spent the rest of the day trying to sneak into the Restricted Section of the library, while Madam Lyntz was occupied watching the Championship.


	5. Prologue: Highlights of Hermione's Second Year

For the first time in her life, Hermione Granger found herself outright lying to her parents. It was the summer after her first year at Hogwarts, and she was very quickly coming to realize exactly how much she had left out of her letters over the course of the school year. It was easy enough to avoid certain subjects over the course of the winter hols, but summer was a different story. She could not bring herself to explain so many things… meeting Fluffy, the Troll Incident, sneaking a _dragon_ out of the castle from the top of the tallest tower… not to mention the fact that she had thought one of her professors had been trying to kill her best friend all year, and even worse, it had been the _wrong_ professor! She didn’t even consider sharing the meeting with the Dark Lord Voldemort’s disembodied spirit in the Forbidden Forest, or the end-of-the-year adventure. Harry had almost died! She wanted to tell them, of course, but she was afraid that if she did, they would decide that the magical world was too dangerous for their little girl.

So she told herself that it was for the best not to tell them, and stuck to safe topics: the wonders of Charms and Transfiguration, and all the little details about her friends and their personal lives – Ron and Malfoy’s ridiculous feud, all the trials of Neville in Potions, Fred and George’s pranks, and her concerns about Harry and the darkness he hinted about in his home life. Her mother gently questioned whether she had romantic feelings toward any of the boys, since they featured so prominently in all of her stories, and she made faces of disgust. She talked about Lavender and Parvarti, and how they spent all of their time talking about makeup and were trying to learn glamour magic, and the absolute disaster zone her dorm turned into whenever Fay and Eloise were having a fight with each other, which happened at least once a week, and more often at exam times. She painted a nice, innocent picture of life in the magical world, and her parents were secretly pleased that their odd little girl finally seemed to be making new friends and coming out of her shell.

Hermione, on the other hand, felt as though she did nothing but lie, all the time, and began to understand why the older muggleborn students always looked a bit sad whenever anyone mentioned going home: once you’ve crossed into the magical world, there simply comes a point when you no longer belong with your non-magical family anymore. She wasn’t there yet, but she could see it coming.

She demanded to go to Flourish and Blotts as soon as she arrived back in London, for she didn’t think it was possible to ever learn enough about her new world, but she also spent a good part of the summer reading muggle textbooks. It had not escaped her notice that wizards, as a whole, were frighteningly ignorant about basic maths and sciences, not to mention having no concept of technology beyond the 1600s, and they were certainly not going to learn anything about non-magical history at Hogwarts. They arguably didn’t even learn _magical_ history, since Binns only ever talked about Goblin Wars.

***

Hermione had wandered through the entire train twice, peeking in every tiny compartment window. They weren’t there. Harry and Ron were not on the train. Fred and George were, sharing a compartment with their friend Lee and a girl who had to be their little sister, writing quietly in a journal, but her two best friends were missing. She poked her head into their compartment.

“Fred, George? Can I talk to you for a second?”

“Of _course_ , Hermione…”

“Anything for a friend of ickle Ronnikins.”

They followed her out into the narrow corridor which ran the length of the train.

“That’s just it… Have you seen him lately? Or Harry? I can’t find them.”

“Not since we got on the platform.”

“We had to go find Lee, there, you see.”

“And then our lovely Ginevra tracked us down…”

“Didn’t want to sit with Loony Lovegood, I bet.”

“But we’ve been lucky enough…”

“ _Not_ to see either of our brothers…”

“Since we’ve been on the train.”

“I’ve been through the entire train twice. I think they might have missed it somehow.”

The twins exchanged what could only be described as a resigned look. They seriously wouldn’t be surprised if the younger boys _had_ missed the train. They had been running rather late, after all, and while they would like to think better of Harry, they knew their brother’s incompetence knew no bounds.

“Well surely if they did,”

“Dad will just send them on by floo,”

“To the Head’s office.”

“Old Dumbles won’t mind.”

“What’s the floo?”

“Traveling through the fire.”

“Very spinny.”

“Bad for luggage.”

“Bit of a pain.”

“But faster than the train.”

“They’ll probably beat us there.”

“You really think they’ll be alright?” Hermione wrung her hands anxiously.

“Don’t worry about it, Granger.”

“Yeah, our brother might be a right idiot,”

“But Harry has a bit of common sense.”

“Come play Exploding Snap with us.”

The girl hesitated for a moment. The other twin added: “We could use a fourth.”

She sighed. There was nothing she could do _now._ And surely Mr. and Mrs. Weasley would be able to get them to the school somehow. _Everyone_ couldn’t possibly ride the train every year. She would tell Professor McGonagall, she decided, if they weren’t at the feast.

“So tell us, Hermione, love,” one of the twins began, as they dragged her into their compartment.

“Do you have a nickname?”

“Because _Hermione_ is simply too long.”

“What? No… Ron calls me Mione sometimes…”

“That’s hardly any better, is it, Fred?”

“Can’t say that it is, George.” They shared an evil grin.

“Hey, Lee!”

“We need,”

“A new nickname,”

“For Miss Granger, here.”

The twins, it turned out, could be very distracting, when they wanted to be. It wasn’t until halfway through the sorting that Hermione realized Harry and Ron were _still_ missing.

***

Gilderoy Lockhart’s first DADA lesson of the year would be immortalized in Hermione’s memory for the simple fact that it was the only time (outside of a chess match) that she could ever remember _Ron_ being right, _and_ herself being wrong. Though she didn’t know it at the time, two sentences would come to haunt her throughout the next summer: “You’ve read his books – look at all those amazing things he’s done –” and “He _says_ he’s done.”

It was terribly embarrassing, in hindsight, she thought, how naive she was at the beginning of that second year.

***

The Slytherin and Gryffindor Quidditch teams were squaring off to fight about… something ridiculously unimportant, Hermione was sure. Malfoy was showing off his money, as always. Apparently he’d bought his way onto the Slytherin team. She and Ron ran on the field just in time to hear the git say, “You could raffle off those Cleansweep Fives; I expect a museum would bid for them.”

The Slytherins were laughing, and the Weasleys were looking awkward and flushed. It wasn’t their fault their family hadn’t the sort of money the Malfoys did.

“At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in,” she snapped. “They got in on pure talent.”

That remark, she thought smugly, clearly hit home. Malfoy flinched almost unnoticeably. She thought she saw a flicker of recognition in the Slytherin captain’s eyes, though. Ha! It was true, and they all knew it.

“No one asked your opinion, you filthy little mudblood!”

Things quickly went downhill from there. The Twins lunged for Malfoy and Alicia shrieked. Ron managed to hit himself with a hex that made him vomit slugs, and then Colin Creevy, the idiot boy with the camera got involved.

Hermione quite frankly didn’t see what the big deal was. Obviously ‘mudblood’ was a rude word, probably something to do with her heritage or the like, but it couldn’t be much worse than when they all said things like ‘You’re quite good at [anything] for a _muggleborn’_ or ‘This is Miss Granger. She’s [significant pause] muggleborn.’ In fact, ‘muggle’ itself sounded like some sort of bumbling, incompetent thing, and wasn’t much better. She refused to consider an insult based on something she couldn’t control – like her heritage – to be valid. So if it had been up to her, she would have just called Malfoy an albino twat and watched him turn purple and sputter about telling his father. But her housemates were just as keen to stick up for her as she had been to defend the Weasleys.

She and Harry dragged Ron to Hagrid’s, and ended up staying for a chat which, like the incident with Lockhart’s first class, would only seem significant in hindsight. At the time, she was more concerned with the way Ron and Hagrid were going on about blood purity. She couldn’t help but be a bit offended at the way they were setting herself and Neville up as the exceptions that disproved the rule of blood purity and magical strength. Not that it wasn’t nice to be recognized as _excellent_ at magic, but she couldn’t help but think that this was just more “Hermione’s very good at magic _for a muggleborn_.” She didn’t want to seem whiny though, so she said nothing.

***

Halloween, once again, was eventful. Between the Deathday Party, Harry chasing murderous voices through the castle, and the ‘Heir of Slytherin’ announcing his return, it was _almost_ as bad as the previous year. But really, nothing would ever beat the Troll Incident. Malfoy was just being a prat, yelling about the Heir going after mudbloods. Right?

She spent the next few weeks researching everything she could find on Slytherin’s Chamber, monsters that could petrify things, and, when that led nowhere, ways to sneak into the Slytherin Common Room. Someone, after all, had to know _something_. And she would damn well get to the bottom of this.

***

November and December passed in a blur of research and illicit potions-brewing. At some point, she vaguely recognized that everyone else in the school was ostracizing Harry for being able to talk to snakes, but she didn’t particularly care. She was far too overwhelmed with making sure the potion turned out correctly.

She was only a little disappointed to tell her parents that she would be staying in the Castle over the holidays, at least until the Cat Related Polyjuice Incident. At that point, she thought she would happily have gone home and never tried to make any sort of advanced potions. The worst part, really, was that Harry and Ron hadn’t even found out anything useful. Though she rather thought that both Madame Pomfrey and Professor Snape (though he would never admit it) were impressed by the fact that she had brewed the potion correctly – after all, if anything else had been wrong, she probably would have killed herself, not turned herself into a bloody Japanese cartoon.

***

“So, do you lot know what classes you’ll be signing up for yet?”

“Ugh, go away, Percy.”

“No, Ronald. It’s very important, you know, to choose your classes appropriately. You’ll need as many OWLS and NEWTs as you can get to get a good career, you know. Harry, Hermione? What about you?”

“Haven’t really given it much thought, in all honesty.”

“Honestly! How have you not already been thinking about this? _I_ think I ought to take Runes, and Arithmancy for sure, and from what I’ve read, Care of Magical Creatures sounds like it could be fascinating… I just can’t choose two! What do you think of Muggle Studies, Percy?”

***

“The voice!” Harry shouted, suddenly, as they made their way up the main staircase in the Great Hall, “I just heard it again – didn’t you?”

Ron shook his head, with an almost pitying look for his friend. Hermione, however, had a flash of inspiration. What could Harry hear that no one else could? Snakes. What was Salazar Slytherin known for? Speaking to snakes. What was Slytherin’s monster most likely to be? A _snake_. She had to go double check… but a _basilisk_ … if none of the victims had looked it directly in the eye, and she was pretty sure they hadn’t… who knew what would happen then?

“Harry – I think I’ve just understood something! I’ve got to go to the library!”

***

Bulging yellow eyes were reflected in Penelope Clearwater’s compact. She was frozen instantly, but there was a sensation of stiffness coming over her body as the actual petrification took effect, starting at her heart and working outward. She couldn’t breathe. She had a brief, terrifying thought about what might happen if her heart stopped beating before her brain was frozen. She was probably going to die. If the petrification didn’t kill her, the snake would. 

She closed her eyes tightly, just in case it came around the corner, clutching the page she had ripped out of the library book. Someone would find it. Someone would figure it out. Probably Harry. He had a knack for trouble, she thought, as the petrification reached her brain.

***

A moment later, she blinked, looking up at the white, white ceiling and gingham privacy curtains of the Hospital Wing.

“Welcome back, Miss Granger,” said Madame Pomfrey with a smile. “We’ll just run a few tests, and you should be able to go to the feast this evening.”

“It was a basilisk, wasn’t it? Did they figure it out?”

“That, my dear, you would have to ask the Headmaster about.”

“Right. What day is it?”

***

“So let me get this straight,” Hermione said. She was on the train with Harry and Ron. Ginny and the Twins were also sharing the compartment. None of the elder Weasleys were keen to let their little sister out of their sight, and that was before she and Harry finished telling the full story of what had happened over the course of the year, but Percy had to sit with the other prefects. “There was a person trapped in the diary. An actual person. It wasn’t just a simple memory or anything like that. He could actually talk to you and string together novel ideas.”

“Yes. I think so. He could carry on a conversation if that’s what you mean, and I don’t think he was just a memory. He showed me a memory in the book, and all the people in it just ignored us both,” answered Harry. Ginny only nodded.

“That’s fairly consistent with what I’ve read about memories. You can’t truly interact with them. And he identified himself as Tom Riddle, aka Voldemort, and was sixteen.” Both nodded. “It was drawing on your life force, Ginny, to manifest itself outside of the book.”

“I guess so… That’s what they told me, after.”

“He was,” said Harry firmly.

“And… he was able to possess you?”

“Yes.” Ginny’s voice was almost a whisper.

“What was it like?” Hermione asked, making notes and looking back over those she had taken during their initial recounting of the story.

“Why?” Harry asked flatly. Hermione looked up. Ginny was shrinking back in her seat, clearly terrified of thinking about the details and nuances of the experience.

“Because, well, when I was doing research on the Chamber and Dark Creatures and anything that might cause petrification, I came across a book that was talking about the nature of the body and the soul,” she began.

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Ron interrupted.

“Shut up, little brother.”

“Yes, our young firecracker,’”

“Might get around to,”

“Telling us something,”

“If you’d not interrupt.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow at the nickname, which hadn’t been used since the train ride in September, but continued. “I was looking at anything that might discuss mechanisms of petrification. There were a few vaudun spells and rituals that had to do with separating the essence, the _anima_ , whatever lets us think and feel, from the body temporarily, and causing a kind of catatonic state, which was cross-referenced… it doesn’t matter. The important part is that what you’ve told me so far, along with what we know from last year’s… adventure, suggests that that diary might have been a kind of soul magic. Black magic.”

“What’s it called?” asked Ginny, of all people.

“A _veso nanm_. A soul vessel. It’s really awful. The book was talking about how to cure someone whose soul’s been stolen, but it sounded like if you were really evil, you could also use it on yourself, if you found a way to split your soul in two. You would hide part of it in an object, and the object would keep your soul tied to the physical plane even if your body was destroyed. I think… Voldemort… might have had one. That diary. That’s why he didn’t die, Harry, when your parents did.”

“So what does that have to do with possession?”

“Well, the basics, as I understand it, are that there are three different kinds of possession. The big two, most common, are mental possession and spirit possession. Mental possession is when a living person takes over your mind. You’re conscious for it, but you can’t help anything you’re doing. Spirit possession is usually by a ghost or poltergeist or other spirit. They enter your body and fight your own soul or _anima_ for control of your body. If they win, you wouldn’t remember what was going on. And then there’s demonic possession. That’s more like what happened to Quirrell. It’s usually a demonic entity that does the possessing, but I couldn’t really find anything on demonology. I suppose it would be in the deepest parts of the restricted section, and I couldn’t get a pass... It has to be invited in, anyway, and there are all kinds of horrible mutagenic side effects, like the face on the back of Quirrell’s head. Knowing what kind of possession it was should help confirm what kind of entity we’re dealing with.”

“How on Earth,”

“Do you know all that?”

The Twins were looking at Hermione with an expression somewhere between suspicion and admiration. Neither Harry nor Ron seemed surprised. “I looked it up, after… last year.”

“The second one,” Ginny whispered. “I don’t remember anything. I would just… wake up, with feathers in my hair, or blood on my hands.”

“He said she poured her heart out to him, and he was able to pour part of himself into her,” Harry added with a shudder. “It was really creepy.”

Hermione frowned. “That suggests that it really was a soul vessel, or something similar. But that’s not anything like what they’re supposed to do. The book made it sound like it would draw in the other half of your soul after your body was destroyed. It would be… reunited. And then you could be revived. So he shouldn’t have been able to do that incorporeal spirit thing and possess Quirrell last year. Unless…” an idea struck the girl as she was speaking, “Oh this is really bad, guys.”

“What?” asked Harry, Ron and Ginny at the same time, as Hermione blanched.

“Don’t leave us,”

“In suspense!” added the twins.

“What do you expect would happen if… you had more than one beacon? If your body was destroyed, but your soul, what was left of it, was drawn to more than one place? So it wouldn’t _have_ to go to either, because it was drawn to both. Do you think it would be able to roam around freely? Because I think it might. And that would mean that… Voldemort had more than one soul vessel. And no one would be able to _really_ kill him until they were all gone.” The others stared at her in horror. She didn’t notice, caught up in the theoretical implications of her idea. “Though I suppose if you got all but one and he didn’t have a body, he might get trapped in a book or some trinket or whatever his last vessel was,” she added thoughtfully.

“Is that even possible?”

Hermione shrugged in response to Ron’s question. She had no idea. “All the book said was that to make a _veso nanm_ of oneself was the darkest of arts, a corruption of a corruption. I’m kind of surprised it wasn’t in the restricted section.”

“Hermione?” asked one of the twins.

“Yes?”

“Has anyone ever told you,”

“You’re a bit scary sometimes?”

“Shut up, you two. Wouldn’t you rather know?”

“So he’s still out there,” said Harry in a shaky voice. He looked almost as ill as Hermione felt.

“I… I think he might be, yes. I don’t know enough about it. I’ll ask Dumbledore when we get back to school, and see if I can find any other books on the subject. It was really just a mention in a chapter on something else.” She was quiet for a moment, but swallowed hard and looked Harry in the eye as she added, “But I think we have to plan for the worst.”

The conversation trailed off, and the six students spent a great deal of the trip home in silence, staring out the windows and contemplating the future.

**[Yes, that’s right, in this universe, the real point of divergence from canon turns out to be… Dumbledore failing to find and remove a certain book on Voodoo healing from the library. Or a negligent NEWT student leaving it out of the Restricted Section where Hermione could find it. Or the inclusion of the word “petrification” on its card-catalogue cross-reference keyword list. Something very small, in any case.]**


	6. Prologue: Highlights of Tom's Third Year

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: blood and torture ahead; also Merope Gaunt's history, including physical abuse, references to childhood sexual abuse, and the whole non-consensual "Riddle Sr. was under a love potion" thing.

Returning to the Muggle world after a second year at Hogwarts was a shock. Tom was distantly surprised to find that he no longer felt as comfortable in his old haunts as he had at Hogwarts. Here, of course, he was clearly superior, and everyone knew it, and acted accordingly, but the very atmosphere was lacking something, without magic in the air, and he had, though he was loathe to admit it, become somewhat dependent on the use of his wand. The old magic, the free magic, shaped by his will alone, never changed, but it was also far less focused and much less powerful than wand-magic. Denying him his wand was like sentencing him to a diet of bread and water. He might still live, but all the excitement had gone out of life.

And without even any books – he hardly dared steal a trunk-full from the school library again, and the Slytherin Library books wouldn’t leave the common room – to occupy himself, he was deadly bored.

***

It was a week into the summer, late at night, and Tom was wandering the streets of East London. He was standing under a street lamp, cleaning his nails with a pocket knife, the blood of a rat he had vivisected having stubbornly refused to wash away. A hand reached out from the darkness and clamped itself around his mouth as a much larger knife than his own snaked around from behind him to touch his neck.

The man smelled like cheap alcohol and sweat, as though he hadn’t bathed for a week. He dragged Tom into an abandoned building and threw him into a corner, locking the door behind them. Tom grinned. This was interesting – almost funny. A poor, stupid muggle thought he could take advantage of poor, defenseless, small-for-his-age-at-thirteen _Tom Riddle_? Oh, no… that wouldn’t do at all.

“ _Stop!_ ” Tom commanded. The muggle froze, the look on his face indescribable. “ _Drop the knife!”_ He did.

Tom walked over, wiping a trail of blood from the corner of his mouth. He had caught his lip between his teeth and the wall. He weighed the knife in his hand and tested its blade, then started to cut the frozen man’s clothes off him. The last tattered bit of cloth fell to the floor, and Tom did not stop cutting. The pain helped the man overcome the command, but Tom clubbed him in the temple with the knife’s handle before he could begin to resist effectively.

First the wounds were shallow, barely drawing blood. It wasn’t enough, Tom thought, for this man who thought he could hurt Tom Riddle. He cut deeper, watching the blood trickle to the floor. He avoided the major arteries and veins, placed not _so_ differently in humans and dogs. He peeled back the skin of the left shoulder and teased apart layers of muscle tissue, looking at how they were put together, how they attached to the scapula, vertebrae, ribs. He could, he thought, take the entire arm apart, or the entire body, maybe, given enough time. But the sun came up, lighting the crack under the door, and Tom suddenly realized he was tired. He considered killing the man, and then decided that would be too much like work. He wanted to go home, go to bed. He left the man’s knife by his body, washed his hands in a tepid puddle, leaked through the ceiling from who knows where, and headed back to the orphanage.

***

For the rest of the summer, between torturing the orphans and bemoaning the lack of magic in this world, Tom read books on human anatomy at the Public Library, and lurked about dark street corners, luring mostly men, and a few women, into dark alleys to study their anatomy in a more... hands-on way.

Most of London was tensely concerned about the situation on the continent, with Germany on the brink of invading Poland, and Britain preparing to uphold its treaties and agreements if need be, but as August wore on, the East End worried more about a serial mutilator – not a killer, or a stabber, but some sick bastard who cut up his victims with medical precision, and left them on the edge of death, unconscious or tied up, bleeding in alleyways and abandoned warehouses. Victims described him as a young man, a demon, a big man, someone using a child as bait. The police were baffled. There was no sign that the Night Surgeon, as they were calling him, made any effort to hide his crimes, and he hadn’t yet killed, but they could not trace him, and there was no way of knowing who or where he would strike next. The most reasonable thought he was mad, perhaps a medical student whose mind had gone from stress.

Tom smiled quietly as he heard these things, amused at their utter bafflement. He was not trying at all to hide his activities, and their speculations on his motives were frankly ridiculous. He was just… curious. And had the means to satisfy that curiosity. It was certainly more interesting than waiting around for something out of the ordinary to happen.

Scarcely two months after the first victim of the Night Surgeon was found, on the day the War was declared, the bodies stopped appearing. Tom Riddle had gone back to Hogwarts.

***

The other Slytherins could tell there was something _different_ about Tom Riddle. Something _darker_ , maybe. Some of them had seen something like it before, when their older siblings and cousins took up dark, or even black, magic, a sense that the person had seen things, done things, that separated them from the rest of humanity. Perhaps not death-sacrifices, but torture... It was a distinct possibility. They kept their mouths shut.

Dumbledore was concerned, but could not say anything, as Tom had not, apparently, broken any rules. He found every excuse he could to punish the boy for the transgressions he knew had taken place in secret, but opportunities were few and far between, as Tom was careful now only to do the minimum required in the course, and nothing else. He spent most Transfiguration classes blatantly reading other text books, and looking up bemusedly when Dumbledore tried to stump him with sudden questions. He always had an answer, and most often it was correct. It was quite vexing.

Tom settled into his role in the lowest tier of Slytherin society, apparently content to let the others have their little power games and squabbles, sitting them out as though they held no importance to him whatsoever, and spending his time in the library, studying enchanting and wardcrafting and the oldest magics he could find. A few weeks into the first term, he managed to convince Sedgwick to give him a pass into the Restricted Section, after which he was rarely seen outside of it, save for meals and classes, where he maintained his position as the leader of the class, though not by much. The Ravenclaws suspected that this was because he had decided that he didn’t give a single fuck about the classes themselves, and was only even showing up to classes to remind them that he existed and was better than them. They weren’t _entirely_ wrong.

Tom was consumed by the study of blood magic, which was mostly illegal (especially if you were using _someone else’s_ blood), almost black, and, he thought, incredibly _useful_. He was experimenting with using his magic in a new way (more like the untrained magic of his youth, but far, far more powerful), playing with blood wards, and had hardly noticed that he had found his place in Slytherin House, or that that place was as the creepy outsider.

By Halloween he had a rough outline of the wards he would put on his room, and he continued to refine them over the course of the year.

***

Also at Halloween, the Gryffindor pranksters, now fifth-years (Pope, of all people, had made prefect), declared war on Slytherin House. This would not have bothered Tom at all, as he was hardly one for House unity, but their first prank resulted in every article of clothing owned by _every_ Slytherin being dyed pink. This was enough of an insult for Tom to drag himself away from the library long enough to cast a few wickedly dark hexes at each of them (while safely hidden inside a cloak of concealment, which was not quite as good as an invisibility cloak, but did render him unrecognizable).

This escalated the War, and by Thanksgiving, Tom had been interrupted at his extra-curricular studies so thoroughly that he resolved to end the War with a definitive victory for Slytherin when the Gryffindors returned from the Yule Holiday.

Kitty Turner was exceedingly unamused to find every single Gryffindor reporting to the hospital wing declaring in variously hopeless, irate, or terrified tones that they “Ate a funny whelk!” between frantic trips to the loo. They could say nothing else for three days, and could not keep any food down except, ironically, shellfish. It took her nearly a week to find the potion that had been used on them, and when she did, she called Tom Riddle to her office for a little chat. It began with his grinning like the cat that ate the canary (apparently pleased that he was receiving credit for his marvelous prank, and even more pleased that she had no proof it was him, aside from “it had to have been brewed over holiday” and “that kind of irony has Tom Riddle written all over it”), and ended with her threatening to reverse his feet if he ever sent another student to her infirmary in the first week of term.

***

The Slytherins, pleased with Tom’s winning the war on their behalf, briefly considered fully accepting him as one of their own, but before they could do so, Tom, in order to make it clear that he didn’t approve of their actions in the Gryffindor War any more than the Gryffindors, warded every single bathroom in Slytherin House, effectively locking the first through fourth years out of their showers for over a week, until the prefects grew tired enough of their combined stench and constant attempts to use the _upperclassmen’s_ bathrooms to break the wards.

Tom _said_ nothing, of course, but his freshly washed hair on the second morning of the lock-out spoke volumes.

He found himself warding off revenge pranks through the Equinox, which was the opposite of his intention in paying the two houses back for wasting his time, but his successful foiling and avoidance of their revenge plots did establish his reputation insofar as being impossible to catch off guard. Sedgwick’s continued dueling lessons did the rest. He had always been a ruthless duelist, but as the revenge pranks wore on, he grew stronger and faster in his casting, and more vicious in his dueling of those he suspected were responsible. He wasn’t wrong – Scorpius and Leo were the two most active Slytherin pranksters, and had, in fact, carried out more than half of the attempted revenge pranks, whether for themselves or as favors within the House was irrelevant.

***

The latter half of second term was, for Tom, rather disturbing. The third-year Divination students were to follow their own history back in time, and find out how their parents met. Most students, Professor McKinnon thought, enjoyed this project, as it was largely self-centered (which made it interesting) and a little bit naughty (had mum and father _really_ met at mum’s cotillion? Or had he met her in a pub with her friends and tracked her down, thrown out of the house by granddad when he came to call?).

Tom knew almost nothing of his parents. His mother had died giving birth to him, and he had insisted when Dumbledore told him that she was a witch that she couldn’t have been – if she had been, she wouldn’t have died in childbirth. He had been named Tom and Riddle for his father, Marvolo for her father. That was all. There had been at least four different Marvolos who could have been his grandfather, but none of them had had daughters, that he could find, looking through the more recent genealogies. So he was stuck.

In the course of the Divination project, he learned that his mother had been a girl called Merope, Merope Gaunt, he supposed, if her father’s shouting was any indication. She was a plain girl, weak, the plaything of her father and brother.

***

_A midwife was called, and delivered the child safely, but the woman was weak after weeks of living on the streets, and she bled to death in the birthing bed, the women able to staunch her wounds only long enough for her to name him. “Call him Tom, Riddle, after his father, and Marvolo, after mine.” The woman, little more than a girl, died, and her eyes did not change._

_The same girl, a little younger, maybe sixteen now, sporting a spectacular black eye and a bruise shadowing her jaw, brewing a potion from one of the old grimoires in secret, hidden in her tiny room. A man who must have been her father called her into the living room, “Merope! Come!” He snapped his fingers as though she were a dog, and she went willingly, throwing a sheet over the potion simmering in the corner. Her brother shot hex after hex at her as she tried weakly to repel them._

_Merope, no older than Tom himself, stared longingly out the window, watching the road. A young man, perhaps five years her senior, with dark hair and light eyes, much like Tom’s, rode past on a horse with his friends, not even looking her way. She sighed, attracting the attention of her father. “What are you doing, you useless girl? Worthless excuse for a Gaunt. Get back in the kitchen and work on your Scouring Charms. Place is a mess.” He cuffed her hard on the side of the head, and she stumbled out of the room._

_Merope Gaunt, older again, standing by the front door, nervously playing with a vial of a bright pink potion. She added three drops of it to the lemonade in her other hand and took up her wand nervously. The young men came riding over the hill, and she took careful aim, sending a Confounding Charm at their leader. “Hello,” she called, “would you care for a drink?” Tom Riddle Senior, for it could only be he, took the potion-laced lemonade from her own hand, and drank it down._

_A hasty marriage ceremony in a muggle church, the groom looking somewhat confused, the bride glowing. “I do,” they say, in turn, and Riddle kisses Merope, his wife._

_Tom Riddle Senior, pounding on the door of the Gaunt Shack, eyes wild, drugged. Merope’s older brother, who her father calls Morfin, chases him away with hexes, hissing curses at him in Parsel. Merope sneaks out her window to find him. “Take me away, Tom,” she says. They disappear into the night._

_Merope Gaunt, perhaps fourteen or fifteen, dirty and thin, knelt on the floor in front of her father, trying over and over to cast a spell. He kicked her when she failed. She fell to her side as the sound of masculine laughter floated through the window._

_Merope, pregnant and exhausted, is wandering the streets of a city, with nothing but the clothes on her back, a locket, and a ring. She doesn’t have her wand, or doesn’t use it. Her belly is grown large, but the rest of her is wasted away. She pawned the locket, then the ring, living as a muggle, and poorly at that._

_Merope Riddle, healthier than Tom has ever seen her, is staring out another window, looking at a tiny village high street and rubbing her stomach. She’s pregnant, and just starting to show. She looks to the bottle in her hand, a tiny potion-vial, nearly empty, and puts it back in her pocket. She does not add a drop to the lemonade with which she greets her husband at the door._

_Heavily pregnant, the shadow of the woman who was Merope stumbles at the steps of an orphanage. The_ orphanage, Tom realized with a start. _She looks up as an older woman, the Matron of the time, opened the door. They took her in, gave her a bath, made her comfortable and fed her soup. Merope, even addled as she was by exhaustion and hunger, must have recognized that she was safe and warm on some animal level, because she went into labor almost as soon as she was tucked into bed._

_Tom Riddle Senior wakes up in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar house, with a girl who looks familiar, but he doesn’t know her name. “Who are you? What’s going on?” he sounds panicked. “Don’t you remember me, Tom? I’m Merope, your wife. I’m pregnant, Tom. It’s yours. Aren’t you happy?” She beams, plain face radiant in the morning light. “I don’t know you! I don’t believe you! Who are you? What have you done to me?” he flees. The light leaves Merope’s eyes, and does not return._

***

It was… not what Tom had expected. It took some time for him to piece it together, but when he did, he could not understand why she had let herself die – for she had. There were so many points where magic could have saved her, gotten her money, bought her bread and meat. She could have lived well, making potions, even if she wasn’t much of a witch. She could have even healed herself, he thought, at the end. She was away from her father and brother. She could have been happy. But she had wanted to die. She had lived only long enough that she would not take him with her.

She had been, Tom thought, even madder than her brother, to welcome death, and he had seen Morfin Gaunt nail a snake to a door for failing to call him _sir_. (Snakes on the whole were not respectful animals. It was absurd to expect a snake to call you _sir._ It was pushing things to expect they would follow orders, even _Tom_ knew that.) He despised her for her weakness.

Riddle Senior, Tom understood a bit better. He had never cared about Merope, and had been trapped by her. If it had been Tom, he would have left her too, probably. But it was the deepest sort of betrayal for the man to have left _Tom_ as well as Merope. In Tom’s opinion, the muggle should have stuck around until he had been born, and taken him too. After all, it would have been better to grow up in a muggle house, rather than in a muggle orphanage.

Far sight, maybe, from growing up with magic, but he almost thought he’d prefer _that_ to growing up with Marvolo Gaunt, as he looked back further, into Merope’s childhood. Both she and Morfin had been beaten severely, and both Marvolo and Morfin had raped the girl for years before she escaped. Tom resolved that he would find all of his male relatives someday, and make them pay for their crimes against him and his mother, who, after all, had been _his_ , and had cared enough that she waited to die and not kill him too, even if she had been weak.

***

Entirely aside from family drama, Tom had never seen anyone die before, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about it. Excited, but also… wary, for some reason. As though it was a thing to approach with care. Killing was a point of no return, he thought, recalling the dark books he’d read. One wouldn’t want to kill someone by _accident_ , especially the first time. He could so easily imagine one of his experiments, his victims, pushed slightly too far, bled slightly too much, the light of their life leaving their eyes like the spark had fled from Merope’s, even before she had died properly. But he thought that he might like to see someone die for real, someone who hadn’t resolved themselves to it. Someone like Morfin, maybe, who deserved it for killing his snakes, or Marvolo, perhaps, who had violated his own daughter, and taught his son to do the same. Or perhaps Tom Riddle Senior, who had abandoned his unborn son to a muggle orphanage. Yes, a nice, traditionally vengeful patricide would do, for his first time.

***

The rest of the year passed in a flood of exams and family history research, but also dreams, from which Tom would wake in the middle of the night, a smile on his face, body tense and excited, remembering blood between his fingers and brown eyes going blank, imagining a flood of power. _Someday_ , he thought, _I will find them. I will kill them all. I will make them understand what terrible things they have done. I will own them and then I will watch the light flee from their eyes. And it will be glorious._

He was entirely frustrated, as he failed by every means he could think of to locate the Gaunts or Tom Riddle Senior by the time he was sent back to London for the summer break. He was determined that his father would be the first person he killed, but he would, he thought, have to wait until fourth year to learn how to scry the present and _find_ the gods-forsaken excuse for a man.


	7. Prologue: Highlights of Hermione's Third Year

The summer of 1993 passed much like the summer of 1992 for Hermione Granger. Both of her parents spent their days working at their dental practice. Hermione spent her days reading, and her evenings spending time with her parents, trying to avoid mentioning the fact that she had spent more than half of the previous term in the hospital wing.

She was, at first, pleasantly surprised that the Headmaster had not given away the dangers of the magical world by informing her parents of either event, but as the summer wore on, she began to feel vaguely uneasy with the fact that they hadn’t been told anything. After all, she might have _died_ with the basilisk roaming around. She had undoubtedly been a target. She shrugged it off. She was chafing more under the Restriction of Underage Magic than she was under the notion of lying to her parents even more extensively than she had done the previous year.

Dan and Emma noticed that their daughter was becoming a bit distant, but they wrote it off as her becoming a teenager. “She is almost fourteen, after all, Dan,” she heard her mother tell her father one night after they thought she was asleep.

As she had the previous summer, she read several maths and physics texts, trying to wrap her mind around the ways that the magical and non-magical worlds _must_ interact. She convinced her parents to take her to Diagon Alley again at the beginning of the summer, and acquired a couple of texts on recent Wizarding history. She spent a few weeks reading these along with muggle histories, trying to see how they were connected, and then moved on to psychology and social engineering, wondering how it was possible for the obviously-insane-in-hindsight to gain followers like Hitler and Voldemort had. And then she delved a bit deeper into psychology in general. It was, after all, very interesting, learning how people thought and felt and why.

She considered inquiring about soul magic, but decided that it would be for the best to avoid making the knowledge that Voldemort was still around public. After all, it wasn’t as though she was _certain._ And on that note, she made a second trip to Diagon Alley later in the summer and sent an owl to Fred and George Weasley, asking them to contact her as soon as possible. She had a feeling that she was going to need help, if she was to get Dumbledore to tell her anything, and the Twins were the most likely people she could think of to both help her and keep it quiet.

***

An owl arrived at Hermione’s window not two days later, looking for all the world like a half-dead feather duster.

 _Dear Firecracker_ , the letter went.

_Not that we aren’t absolutely delighted to hear from you, but we cannot help but wonder why exactly you wanted to talk to us, and why you said “burn this letter and don’t tell anyone, I mean it, not even Ron.” Is this something to do with our discussion on the train? The owl is Errol. He’ll wait for your response. Ta,_

_FW_

_…_

_Dear Troublemakers,_

_Yes, it is something to do with our discussion on the train. Our Mutual Friend told me that our Fearless Leader didn’t really tell him anything at the end of the year, but he gave him some troubling and cryptic hints. His exact words were: Fearless Leader said that Mr. Dark and Mysterious gave me some of his powers [such as a certain linguistic ability] on the night that everything changed. But our Fearless Leader didn’t say how. If you recall what I was talking about on the train, you can imagine some of the implications of that statement. I don’t think our Mutual Friend or his friend have made that connection. Don’t tell them. I don’t want them to worry until we know for sure. _

_The problem is that our Fearless Leader outright told our Mutual Friend at the end of his first year that he was keeping certain things about the night everything changed secret until our Mutual Friend was older, and then changed the subject rather suspiciously. I can’t help but think that he may try to do the same to me when I go to ask him about Mr. Dark and Mysterious. So. I think we need a way to… convince… our Fearless Leader that it is in everyone’s best interests to tell me what I want to know. If you help me, I’ll tell you everything he tells me._

_So my dearest Troublemakers, what do you think? Shall we enter into an alliance?_

_Firecracker_

_…_

_Firecracker,_

_We’re in. Always wanted to pull one over on our Fearless Leader, haven’t we?_

_GW_

_PS, Love your codenames, darling. You’re right to think that Errol’s not an entirely foolproof message delivery system. Find enclosed a scrap of parchment. It’s got a Twinning Charm on it, so that whatever you write on it we’ll see on our half, and whatever we write, you’ll see. No security, though, so make sure to erase anything you don’t want seen on your end. We’ll do the same._

_…_

_Testing. Use pencil so I can erase. I can’t use my wand right now, remember._

**_Hey, Firecracker! We’ll erase it from this end. We can do magic – perks of being a magical family._ **

_Ignoring that. This is brilliant! You have to teach me the charm when we get back to school!_

**_Haha, of course we will._ **

**_You can be our junior apprentice._ **

**_We do appreciate a clever mind and a quick wand._ **

_I’m not going to be your junior apprentice._

**_You say that now…_ **

_I don’t break rules just for the fun of it._

**_Ah, but you do break rules._ **

**_What’s the worst thing you’ve done at Hogwarts, Firecracker?_ **

_I… first year I set Prof. Snape on fire._

**_Bahahahahah_ **

**_The Marauders would be proud._ **

**_We think we should adopt you on principle._ **

_It was only Bluebell Flames. Don’t tell anyone. Who are the Marauders?_

**_Of course not. What did Snape do? And we don’t know._ **

**_Mysterious blokes, the Marauders. We’ll tell you about them later._ **

**_If you become our junior apprentice._ **

_We thought he was trying to kill Harry in that first Quidditch match._

**_I told you Firecracker was a good nickname. Nasty temper, you._ **

_It’s just as long as my actual name._

**_We like it. You’re stuck with it. Unless we think of something better._ **

**_Sparky?_ **

_Shut up. Don’t change the subject. We need to talk about how to convince Dumbledore to tell me about the Soul Vessels and what’s going on with Voldemort and Harry._

**_I can’t believe you called Moldyshorts Mr. Dark and Mysterious._ **

**_Makes him sound like something out of one of Trelawney’s prophecies, doesn’t it. ‘you will meet a dark and mysterious stranger…’_ **

_Riddle = mystery, Dark Lord… I thought it made sense… Moldyshorts?_

**_Oh, it did. I mean, we knew who you meant, no problem. That’s what the old Order of the Phoenix members called him, according to our dad and Mr. Diggory._ **

_What’s the Order of the Phoenix? They’re not in any of the history books._

**_They wouldn’t be. It’s a vigilante organization that our Fearless Leader (love that one too, by the way) set up when Moldyshorts was around to fight him. The ministry has its aurors, but there weren’t enough of them to really defend people. Our parents were part of it. They don’t like to talk about it, but we’ve heard dad and Mr. Diggory talking about it sometimes over a few drinks._ **

_Right. So in Voldemort’s War, it was the Aurors and the Order against Voldemort and the Death Eaters?_

**_We don’t say his name. Mum says it was Taboo until he disappeared, and they got in the habit. They call it the Wizarding War. The Aurors were trying to track down Moldyshorts. That was the offensive side of it. And the Order and anyone else who could fight just tried to defend themselves, as far as we can tell._ **

_What’s a Taboo?_

**_If you said his name, the Corpse Munchers would apparate to wherever you were and kill you. A lot of little kids who grew up on our side don’t even know the name._ **

**_Just say You Know Who, unless you want all the grown-ups to freak out._ **

**_Or Moldyshorts. We like that one. It’s pleasantly disrespectful._ **

_Alright, Moldyshorts then. Now focus. How should I approach our Fearless Leader?_

**_Well, from what we know about old Dumbles, he’s not nearly as dotty as he pretends._ **

**_He’s right sharp to be clear. Always knows what we did and how we did it. The only reason we’re not in detention all the time is he thinks we’re funny and clever._ **

**_Likes a good laugh, does Dumbles._ **

**_What we’ve heard about the War suggests that he was our general. He’s the Leader of the Light, right? Well, he was actually out in the field, and made tactical calls for the Order and whatnot._ **

_Leader of the Light?_

**_It’s a political thing. Not important right now. What’s important is he knows the value of information, and by all accounts, he plays his cards close to his chest._ **

**_Doesn’t want anyone but himself to have the full story._ **

**_Bit Slytherin like that, our Fearless Leader._ **

**_Not that we hold it against him._ **

**_We have been known to be a bit sneaky and treacherous ourselves._ **

**_Only in the name of good clean fun, of course._ **

**_Or rampant chaos. Whichever._ **

**_But we digress._ **

**_He likes to control the flow of information. He’s probably going to be more concerned about the fact that you want to know at all than about your age or experience or anything like that._ **

**_So, here’s what we think you should do:_ **

***

There were dementors on the train to Hogwarts, and an escaped murderer was after Harry. Hermione almost laughed. It wasn’t funny, of course. Her poor friend really just couldn’t seem to catch a break. At this rate, he would be dead before he graduated. It was, she thought, one of those situations where you have to laugh, or you’re going to cry.

 _Dementors_ , she wrote to the Twins, after they were saved by Professor Lupin, _are my least-favorite thing about the magical world so far._

***

“Now then, Miss Granger, I expect you to use this artifact with the utmost care and responsibility. Your use of it will be assessed at the end of the year, and your continued participation in the Department of Mysteries Mentee Program will be evaluated at that time. I trust you will read all the relevant literature and follow the rules and regulations of the program to the letter. You are by far my most promising third-year student. I expect you will do well in the program.”

“Yes, Professor McGonagall. Thank you, ma’am.”

“Do you have any additional questions?”

“Well, professor, there is one thing… That is – do you think it might be possible for me to get an _unrestricted_ pass to the Restricted Section? I know it’s not regular, but I’d really like to do a bit more background reading on time magic. I looked through everything in the stacks after we discussed this possibility last spring, but I’m still not sure I understand the theoretical implications of all of it… I swear I wouldn’t use it inappropriately.”

Minerva examined the girl in front of her for a long moment. She seemed completely earnest. And if there was any third-year student who could handle the responsibilities of accessing the Restricted Section, it would be Miss Granger. The real danger, she thought, was that Miss Granger’s year-mates might get access as well through her. After a moment, she decided. “All right, then. You may have a pass for the first month of term, but you will not be allowed to take books out of the Restricted Section. We can’t have Restricted books floating around the underclassman dorms, after all.”

“Thank you, professor! I’ll make sure I do all of my research in the library. Thank you so much!”

“Right then, you’re dismissed. Enjoy the feast,” said the old witch with a small smile. “Send in Turpin and Entwhistle, if you would.”

***

“Ah, Miss Granger, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Dumbledore was sitting behind his desk, looking for all the world as though he had expected the girl to arrive just when she did, halfway through the second week of classes.

“We need to talk, Headmaster.” Hermione sat at on the very edge of one of the two chairs facing Dumbledore’s desk, clearly nervous about whatever she had to say, but determined to see it through. A good Gryffindor, he thought as he settled in to discuss what would be, no doubt, a trivial, student matter.

***

Hermione came to her senses in an alcove near the Headmaster’s office, and did a quick _tempus_ charm. It was only half three. She was certain she had been speaking to Dumbledore at half three. She tucked her wand back into her pocket, and noticed the crinkle of spare parchment. That was odd. She didn’t keep spare parchment in her pockets. She fished out the note:

_Dear Firecracker,_

_Your meeting with Our Fearless Leader went well. We (and you) decided that it would be best to take certain security measures, which involved obliviating you of everything that happened after you left his office. Trust us when we say that your past self did consent to this. I’m not a good enough legilimens to do it without your consent. You’re missing about 45 minutes, so I sent you back an hour. Seemed fair and should close the loop. But you shouldn’t stick around, because you’ll be headed down the stairs in another fifteen minutes, and we know how you hate to break the rules. Just to be safe, we should keep contact to a minimum for a while. We’ll keep your secrets to ourselves, on our honor. Ta,_

_Your Troublemakers_

_PS, bring us this note if you ever think you may have forgotten why we did what we did. Make a habit of looking at something that reminds you of it, and if it ever doesn’t make sense, find us. Future Fred: Security level Alpha-plus, key-phrase = there and back again._

It was, she thought, a very odd note. She supposed it was some kind of back-up, in case someone obliviated her of her knowledge of the horcruxes and the prophecy. She was almost sure it wouldn’t be necessary, but just in case, she wrote a note to herself and tucked it into her day-planner: Q: Why did TMR try to kill HJP? A: To avoid going to the other side. If the Riddle doesn’t make sense, ask the Tricksters about the Hobbit.

She waited another five minutes, then flipped the Time Turner back twice more, and made her way to her favorite table in the library. She had some scheduling issues to work out. And then she thought she might take a nap. She could already tell that this time skipping business would be tricky.

***

Hermione looked at the list of her homework, and then at the stack of books on strong protective magics that she had found in the Restricted Section. She wanted to read through them as soon as possible. If Dumbledore wasn’t going to figure out Harry’s problem, she would do it herself. She bit her lip as she considered the possibilities.

It was true that she was only supposed to use the Time Turner to attend classes, and for an additional two hours each day to give her enough time to do her homework. But the literature hadn’t given any reason _not_ to use it more, as long as she was careful not to disturb the timeline. She could spend the same time frame in class or with her friends, hidden in her room, _and_ hidden in the library, and use all that spare time to get ahead on reading and research.

As long as she didn’t disrupt the timeline, she decided, it should be fine. And that just meant that she would just have to find a couple of spare places to study when she was sleeping and the library was closed. Maybe she could learn the disillusionment charm, and sit in the common room, or Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. Or maybe Fred and George would have a place she could go…

She packed up the books she needed, hurried back to her bed, and flipped the hourglass back.

***

Managing three concurrent schedules was becoming onerous. It was only Halloween, but she had lived through almost five and a half months, subjectively, she thought, since she had gotten the time turner. It was difficult to figure out a decent sleep schedule or find food at what seemed to be odd hours, and she had only just gotten the hang of making it to all three of her Monday morning classes without any awkward skips anywhere. Suddenly having Sirius Black try to break into the tower when she was planning on returning there after/during the feast, and then also to go sit in the Ravenclaw Common Room (which was only barred by a riddle, and where no one questioned another studious girl doing research in a corner at any hour of the day or night) concurrently, was not only terrifying, but irritating as anything. She sighed, and turned to comforting Harry. Hopefully they would catch the crazy git sooner rather than later, and he could stop disrupting everyone’s lives.

***

November was eventful. Dementors attacked the first Quidditch match of the year, swarming the pitch. Harry, Hermione knew, later asked Professor Lupin to teach him the Patronus charm, to repel them, though they didn’t start then. Hermione started practicing it herself in her favorite abandoned classroom on the fifth floor, for several stolen hours each week. Snape taught a single Defense Against the Dark Arts class, assigning an essay on werewolves, which Hermione was almost certain was meant for them to recognize that Professor Lupin was a werewolf. She seemed to be the only person in her year who understood, though, and didn’t tell anyone. She didn’t care. She trusted Dumbledore to put some kind of security measures in place, even if he hadn’t mentioned any progress on the whole issue of the horcruxes. But then, she supposed, she was only a student. She finished reading through and practicing all of the fourth-year potions theory, history, charms and transfiguration work, and moved on to fifth-year standards. It was getting more difficult to perform _only_ the magic she was expected to be able to do in class. She was having trouble learning the fourth-year runes without instruction, but she was more than half way done with the fifth-year arithmancy theory book. Her life had vastly improved after Fred and George had shown her the kitchens, so that she could get food as she needed it, and she felt, on the whole, that using the Time Turner to its fullest potential was a good decision.

***

The weekend before the pre-Christmas Hogsmeade trip, Fred and George gave the Marauders’ Map to Harry. Hermione was furious. Harry should know better than to leave the castle, and Fred and George should know better than to mess around with an artifact like that, especially after what happened to Ginny. She had been keeping her distance from them, but she wrote them a very angry note about it.

They responded promptly:

**Chill out, Firecracker. It’s just a load of charms. It doesn’t think. It’s definitely not a horcrux. And since Black got into the castle at Halloween anyway, what does it matter if Harry goes out?**

She refused to dignify that with a response.

And then in Hogsmeade, they overheard the Minister and their professors talking about Sirius Black and the Potters. Harry was almost more stunned when Fudge said Black was his godfather than when they talked about how Black had betrayed the Potters. His terrible mood lasted all through the Christmas break, and their search for legal precedents to save Hagrid’s doomed hippogriff.

She was almost pleased when the boys stopped talking to her over the combination of her telling Professor McGonagall about Harry’s Firebolt, and Crookshanks’ constant attempts to kill Ron’s stupid rat – it was getting harder for her to maintain the same attitude with them that she always had. They were just so _immature_. She began spending much more time with Fred and George. They showed her the arithmantic breakdown of the Marauders’ Map that they had used to reverse-engineer their copy. It was terribly impressive, really.

***

January and half of February passed in a confused blur of time-skipping, reading, and illicit spellwork. Hermione was fairly certain that by the end of February, she would be able to take her OWLs. She probably would get mostly E’s, but she could do it. She would be in a very good place for the next two years’ courses, at least. And she was very excited to move on to the more basic NEWT-level spells, at least the theory behind them.

Just after Valentine’s day, Harry and Ron decided to make up with her, though less than ten minutes in, Ron discovered that Crookshanks had finally managed to kill Scabbers, and they were fighting again.

***

“If Scabbers hadn’t just been _eaten_ , he could have had some of those Fudge Flies. He used to really like them –”

Hermione glared at Ron. Enough was enough. “It was just a stupid rat, Ron. You didn’t like it anyway, and it was older than you. Crookshanks just put it out of its bloody misery.” The others stared at her in shock as she snapped her book shut and stalked out of the Common Room. They had _no idea_ what it was like to try to coordinate three lives at the same time, and she was desperately behind on her Muggle Studies reading, because she had to admit, Harry and Ron had been right – it was a stupid class.

To make matters worse she had missed a nap today, and had just been accosted by three upperclassmen Ravenclaws after the _stupid_ Quidditch match. They were making fun of her for trying to do the Patronus charm, though after seeing the match, she was certain it was really because she was a lone Gryffindor and they had just lost. She had challenged them to a spellcasting contest, any OWL-level spells, and Cho Chang had accepted. So now she had to pencil that in at the end of the month. And she hadn’t been able to even sit down and really talk to either of her supposed friends in what felt like _months_ , because neither of them was speaking to her. Everyone else had long-since given up on talking to her, except the twins, and a few of the older Ravens, who had finally realized that she wasn’t actually one of their own and had bothered to come up to her and introduce themselves. If Ron wanted to make her bad day worse, he could just go hang.

That same night, Sirius Black broke into the tower again.

***

Cho Chang and Hermione Granger stood in a disused classroom facing a pair of wooden dummies while Marietta Edgecombe and the Weasley twins, their witnesses and judges, called out random OWL-level spells for the two contestants to cast. Hermione, to her immense satisfaction, managed each of the fifth-year spells adequately, if not perfectly. Cho did not. When Hermione swept out of the room, flanked by the Weasleys, she didn’t notice the look of fury on the older girl’s face. If she had lurked in the hall, she might have heard the Ravenclaw mutter something about Missy Tanarc’s latest project and someone having just volunteered herself as a test subject, but she was more concerned with making it back to her bedroom before someone noticed that she was in two places at once.

***

On the day of the last divination lesson in March, Hermione finally lost it. Hagrid’s hippogriff lost its trial against Draco Malfoy (the very idea of it was absurd, honestly, taking a hippogriff to court). She heard him making fun of Hagrid for crying over it and she snapped.

“Have you ever seen anything quite as pathetic?” Malfoy asked his cronies. “And he’s supposed to be our teacher!”

She stormed over to the spoilt brat and smacked him across the face as hard as she could. “Don’t you dare call Hagrid pathetic, you ridiculous, idiotic excuse for a wizard! Oh, that’s right, go cry to daddy about how his widdle boy just got bitch-slapped by a mudblood chit of a girl, and in front of witnesses no less! I’m sure he’ll be so pleased with you, especially after you’ve made him a laughingstock for insisting on bringing a court case against a fucking hippogriff, you bloody twit.”

Ron held her back, or she would have hit him again. Malfoy escaped with Crabbe and Goyle. He was lucky she hadn’t thought to use the Mark of Disapproval on him. It was a nice little thing she had found in the library, a hex that pureblood women used on their husbands, to make a slap-mark last until the woman decided that the man had been publicly humiliated enough.

Then she missed Charms, and almost gave away her secret to Ron and Harry when they caught her sleeping in the Common Room.

And then, in what she would consider a crowning moment of glory for the year, she walked out of Divination, after _yet another_ prediction of doom for Harry. It was, she thought, the first time she _ever_ gave up on something. But she would be damned if she would waste another second on such an absolute rubbish subject. If there was nothing else she had learned in the past six months (seventeen or so, if you counted all the turned hours), it was not to waste time on anything that wasn’t worthwhile in some way. And divination most definitely was _not_ worth it.

***

On the last day of exams, everything went to hell. That was, in fact, the only way Hermione could think to describe it to herself. Sirius Black was an innocent man who had never had a trial, and who had broken out of prison to commit the murder he had been sent there for in the first place. Scabbers, Ron’s stupid rat, was actually an animagus named Pettigrew who had betrayed the Potters, and faked his own death _twice_. Ron was revolted. Crookshanks had been helping Black, who was _also_ an animagus, sneak around the castle and grounds all year, hunting the rat. Snape was a lunatic who couldn’t let go of his school days, Black was equally a lunatic and it was anyone’s guess how much of that was due to twelve years of dementor exposure, Lupin was a bloody _idiot_ for forgetting to take his Wolfsbane potion, and Harry was an absolute _wreck_. Ron had a broken leg, she and Harry had used her Time Turner to break about a dozen laws to save an innocent convicted murderer and a bloody hippogriff from almost certain death, with the approval of the Headmaster himself. Harry had to cast a patronus to save both her and his past self from almost-certain soullessness, which he did, most impressively. Pettigrew _escaped_ , off to warn Voldemort and his followers about… everything. He had been there when they had discussed the horcrux situation on the train at the end of last year. It was a minor miracle that he hadn’t taken off sooner. The only highlight of the evening had been watching Professor Snape howl irrationally (to anyone who didn’t know about the Time Turner) about Harry and Hermione helping Black escape.

And Hermione had been hoping that maybe, just maybe, they would make it through this year without another major life-threatening incident. What _had_ she been thinking?

***

Two days after what Hermione was beginning to think of the Third Annual End of Year Adventure, she found Harry sitting on the steps of the Owlry tower, petting Hedwig idly.

“This is a really terrible place to sit, you know, if you want privacy,” she said, sitting next to him.

“It’s been pretty quiet, actually.”

“You’ve been pretty quiet, actually.”

Harry sighed. “Do you know the worst part about all of this?”

“Hmmm?”

“For one brief, shining moment, I thought, maybe I could _not_ go back to the Dursleys. We could get Pettigrew, free Sirius, and I could go live with him. Because he’s my godfather. And the Dursleys are _awful_.” He leaned into her, and she put her arm around him, wondering at what point in the past ten (or twenty-six) months Harry had come to seem so young.

“Dumbledore wouldn’t have let you, anyway, you know.”

“I know. He’s said before that I have to stay there because they’re my mum’s blood.”

“That’s not quite it.” Hermione spoke softly, and Harry sat quietly, letting her words wash over him. “The protection your mum gave you is based on her blood and yours, and her love for you, and a willing sacrifice. I did some reading on it, this year. It’s old magic, and just this side of Black, being blood sacrifice and soul magic. The only thing that saves it is that it’s a self-sacrifice ritual. You _can’t_ use an unwilling victim. She quite literally traded her life for yours, at the gates of Death. And there’s something else going on too, that I haven’t figured out yet. You told me once that your house exploded. But the Killing Curse doesn’t explode. She must have set some other trap or wards or something. But what she did to save you, it doesn’t protect you at all, anymore.”

“But what about when I touched Quirrell, and it burned him?”

“I’m not sure yet. I think it might have something to do with your scar, and whatever it was that made the house explode. And I’m pretty sure that Dumbledore put up blood wards, and anchored them to you directly, as well. Which is really dangerous and _massively illegal_ , by the way. He shouldn’t have. But he was used to fighting a war, I suppose. Anyway, that’s why you have to go back to the Dursleys. I think it probably builds on your mother’s sacrifice as establishing a connection between you and her blood relatives, and you have spend a certain amount of time in close contact with them at least once every year to re-charge the ward, or it will break, or else completely burn you out. You’d have to ask him what ritual he used, and what the conditions were.”

“But, Mione,” Harry said in a very small voice, “They hit me. They starve me. The summer before last they locked me in my bedroom, and last summer, I had to run away.” Harry sniffled, valiantly trying to pretend he wasn’t crying at the thought of returning to his abusive relatives.

Hermione sat quietly for a long moment. “I suspected, you know. You’ve hinted at it. But you’ve never said it. Do the adults know?”

“No. I don’t know. I mean, I can’t imagine they do. I haven’t told anyone.”

Hermione shook her head slowly, a dark look in her eyes. She could well believe it, if Dumbledore had suspected that Harry would have to be a martyr for his cause, he could easily have made sure that Harry was raised with no self-esteem in a situation where he would view the Wizarding world as his saviors, happy to sacrifice himself for them. “Well, I don’t know. But I think you should talk to Madam Pomfrey. And then maybe Professor McGonagall.”

“But it’s Dumbledore who put me there.”

“And it wouldn’t hurt you to have a few other adults on your side when you tell him you’re not going back.”

“You sound like a Snake.” Harry almost smiled.

Hermione made a face at him. “I’ve spent too much time with Fred and George this year, is what it is. They’re too sneaky and manipulative and paranoid for their own good. And they really should have gotten more than three OWLs each. It’s not like they don’t know their stuff. Mrs. Weasley’s going to kill them.”

Harry sighed, passing up her offer of a change of subject. “I think I have to go back. What about the wards?”

“Ask to stay at Hogwarts. It’s just two months. And despite all our adventures, Dumbledore loves to insist that this is the safest place in the world.”

“I’ll ask, I guess.”

Hermione was quiet for a moment. “You don’t sound like you think it will work out.”

“I don’t think it will.”

“Your Aunt lives in Surrey, right?”

“Yes. How do you even know that?”

“I know everything. If I give you twenty quid and write down my address and phone number, will you _promise_ to escape and come to my parents’ if it gets too bad? We’re in Kent, just south of Maidstone. You could get a muggle bus or something –” She was interrupted by Harry hugging her so tightly that all the air was forced out of her lungs. She supposed she would have to bring it up again another day.

***

Hermione would not, later, remember all the specifics of her last conversation of her third year, but several moments were perfectly clear.

“Miss Granger. A pleasure as always.” Dumbledore was in the Gryffindor Common Room. No one else was. It was nearly two in the morning, and the carriages left for Hogsmeade at nine. But she had just turned in the Time Turner, and hadn’t yet managed to re-adjust her sleep schedule, so she had stayed in the library until curfew, and was just now beginning her packing, starting with the massive drifts of parchment that had accumulated in her usual study space over the course of the past several months.

…

“I don’t know if you’re making him go back out of ignorance or because you truly think that a martyr-hero is necessary for a better world, but I don’t think it’s fair to let you tell yourself that Harry’s childhood hasn’t been every bit as terrible as it truly has been.”

“You have become a hard young woman, Miss Granger.” Dumbledore looked a bit saddened by that, maybe more so than by her recounting of the abuse Harry had endured.

“It’s been a long year, sir, and I’m tired. What did you want?”

“Oh, I simply wanted to know exactly what you told young Harry.”

“Nothing that violates our agreement,” she snapped.

“Humor me.”

…

“Well, sir, I certainly don’t _want_ my best friend to die. He’s like the little brother I never had. I want you to do everything you can to save him. I _want_ you to give him a time turner and make him study politics and history until his soul is old enough to do the Major Analytic! I _want_ you to teach him to fight back against the darkness in the world, not just let it overwhelm him. I want _you_ to fight back against this damned prophecy, and let it find its own way of coming true within the bounds of your actions, rather than matching your actions to what you _think_ is bound to happen. And I want you to tell him the truth, or at least return the Black Magic grimoires to the library – don’t even pretend you didn’t keep them – so I can research whatever’s happened to him myself. Because it seems an awful lot like I’m the only person he’s got in his corner right now.” The girl was glaring at him. Dumbledore was forcibly reminded of the beginning of the year, so long ago.

“I will do no such thing, Miss Granger. And I assure you, we are all very much in young Harry’s corner, no matter what you may think.”

She scoffed, and turned back to her table, sorting and tidying papers. “I think, Headmaster,” she said without looking at him, “That you do a really poor job of protecting the people you’re sworn to protect. And you’re not doing much better when it comes to preparing Harry to save the world, even though you think he’s going to have to try, and he’s not destined to _succeed._ ”

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Dumbledore said softly, and disillusioned himself before leaving the Gryffindor Common Room. The girl looked around when she heard the Portrait open, but didn’t say anything.


	8. Prologue: Early July, 1940

Tom returned from Hogwarts the summer after his third year to find that while he had been obsessing over his parentage and his plans to murder his father, the whole world had gone mad. The muggles had been taking precautions, of course, at the end of the previous summer, but things had somehow escalated to the point that Germany was actually _bombing London_ on a regular basis.

Tom was most displeased. As little as he liked his life in London, London was _his_ , and he did not like the thought of some Jerry asshole over in the German High Command or whatever it was, giving the orders to wreck something that was _his._

But like it or not, there were already large tracts of the city that had been knocked down or burnt out, and roads were often closed due to collapsed rubble filling the streets. There was a curfew, and rumor had it anyone caught with a light showing after dark was liable to be thrown in gaol for risking the security of the city (or lynched by his neighbors, for threatening their neighborhood specifically) – blackouts only worked if the whole city participated. There were shelters built all over the city to care for the newly homeless and the injured, and public conveniences like the library and museums had closed their doors and moved their collections underground.

The draft had been called up, and it was entirely possible that Riddle Senior had gone off to die in the trenches in France, though, Tom thought uncharitably, he had seemed the sort to try to dodge, if he could. Perhaps Tom would give him a white feather before he killed him, if he was still in England to be killed.

There were no young men in the city any longer, and anyone who could afford to had moved to the countryside. But aside from that, life went on as usual. The people who couldn’t or wouldn’t leave went about their daily lives, shopping and cooking and fucking in their darkened homes.

Magical London, Tom was infuriated to find, had picked up wholesale and moved elsewhere. There was no sign of Diagon Alley, or Knockturn, or Sub-Lemon or Fansif or even Mar-djinn. The usual entrance to the Ministry had vanished, as had the muggle-side entrance to St. Mungo’s Hospital. All of the old Wizarding families he knew of who had townhouses in London had closed them up – he could sense their wards, but there were no signs of the structures at all. He was, quite frankly, surprised that the train had still come to Kings’ Cross. But then he supposed wizards were all a bit stupid when it came to tradition.

It was slightly more difficult than it had been to lure unsuspecting creeps into the shadows in the ruined parts of the city and take them apart, but, thanks to the curfew, he no longer needed to bother with knocking them out. He found that he wanted to see them suffer, and no one was around to hear them scream. He practiced using blood magic, both to hold his research subjects in place, and to ward his bedroom in the orphanage. He didn’t care how strange it would look if a bomb destroyed the rest of the building around his room – the Statute of Secrecy could go hang – he wasn’t about to get killed in his sleep by some stupid muggle war. He was careful not to use his wand, and pleased to see that his studies were paying off.

Aside from his usual hobbies, he had taken to wandering the streets making plans for his life in Slytherin. He was certain, now, that he was stronger than his year-mates, that his studies of blood magic had pushed him ahead of whatever their families had taught them before Hogwarts, even Black’s. It was finally, he thought, a good time to make a move, and establish himself as a leader in the house, Heir of Slytherin, a force to be reckoned with. The real trick, he thought, would be systematically destroying their perceptions of him as the weak, muggle-raised boy they had teased and tormented for the three previous years, but he thought he had made a good start with the Gryffindor and Slytherin pranks, and his performance in Sedgwick’s classes.

And then, less than three weeks into the summer holiday, something interesting happened. The most interesting thing, perhaps, that had ever happened in his life. It came into his life like a hurricane, and drove everything he was planning off course. And somehow, even later, he didn’t resent it.


	9. Part 1: The New Girl

18 July 1940, London

The New Girl was lying in her bed, head and feet bandaged, in a borrowed dress. A single candle burned on the bedside table, light muffled by the blackout curtains pinned over the window. She had been found after the first air raid, somewhere in the East End. She had told the people who found her that she did not remember anything, had no family, and so they had dumped her off here, at Wool’s. They had more important things to worry about than a single lost girl.

Tom was bored. He had helped shift the rubble off the streets for a few hours, like a bloody Hufflepuff. That was how bored he was. It was the summer after his third year away at school, and he felt, as he always did, that returning to the muggle world was like suddenly being devoid of sight, or sound, or color. Not that he couldn’t still ask his magic to do what he wanted it to do, but having to pretend that it wasn’t _magic_ at all, denying his _real_ life, made returning to the hellhole of Wool’s Orphanage nearly unbearable. Even the stupidest of the children knew better than to approach him by now, but between the blackout and the blitz and the stupid monkeys worried about being overrun by Germans, the atmosphere was entirely awful. He had seen a dementor out in broad daylight not three days ago, feasting on the terror that permeated every aspect of life in muggle London. There was defiance, too, of course, but it was a pitiful resistance – mere _survival_ and _retreat_ , in the face of the German bombs. They were so _resigned_ to dealing with their fate.

He was sick of it. It made him want to hurt things, just to escape the monotony.

In point of fact, he had spent some time hurting something, a dog, earlier that day, but it had gotten dark, and there had been no one around to play with, so he had gone back to the orphanage rather than risk being found violating the blackout regulations. And there he had found that there was a new girl, who had been found during the day’s recovery operations and left here. She had apparently hit her head and was “convalescing” in _his_ orphanage, of all places. Normally he might not have cared, and there was small chance that the girl would be of any interest whatsoever, but he was so _excruciatingly_ bored that his curiosity was piqued.

He sat by her bed and fixed a charming smile on his face before he hissed with his magic, “ _Wake up!_ ”

The girl’s eyes fluttered open slowly and she looked around the room. Her eyes widened at the candle and the curtain, as though they were unusual. Finally, she met his eyes.

“Who are you?”

“That’s not the question,” Tom answered, “the _question_ is who are _you_?”

“I asked you first.”

He glared at her defiance. “ _Tell me who you are!_ ” he ordered, a touch of magic behind the command.

She was startled, and then, in quick succession, angry, relieved, and suspicious. She seemed to settle on the last. “I don’t think I will. I don’t like compulsions, you see. Where am I? What happened to me?”

Tom thought furiously. She had resisted his order, and more than that, had recognized it for what it was: magic. That meant she must be a witch. But she looked like she was his age, or just a little older, around fifteen, and he had never met her before, he was sure. So she must not attend Hogwarts. It was just possible that she was from one of the smaller schools, but as far as he knew, there were no day-schools near London, and she didn’t sound French, so she couldn’t be from Beauxbatons. Plus, as far as he could tell, most of Magical London had evacuated with the beginning of the Blitz. Even Diagon Alley had moved to Cambridge. The Ministry of Magic was already more or less a bunker, but they had completely dissociated the building from muggle London. It could be reached only by magic (which meant he couldn’t get to it, since he had no access to magical transportation over the summer), anymore, and might as well have been in the Channel, for all the impression the bombs could make on it.

The girl spoke again, interrupting his reverie. “Hello? I asked you a question. Three, actually. Skip the first one, if you prefer, but –“

“London,” he snapped, “You were found after an air raid. You told your rescuers you had no family, and they brought you here, Wool’s Orphanage.”

Her face went pale. She looked like a muggle who had seen a ghost. He snickered.

“But… Air raid? …that’s… oh my God. Oh my God. OHMYGOD. Bloody hell.” She stared at him, her eyes fixed on his school tie, which he preferred to wear as a reminder that this hellish stay in Muggleland was only temporary.

“I know I shouldn’t trust you. You’re a Slytherin, and won’t even tell me your name. But I have to know, _right now_ , and it’s _absolutely imperative_ that you tell me the truth.” He nodded, intrigued. She knew about Slytherin? “Is this… nineteen _forty_?” She whispered the last word, with a look of horror on her face.

“Yes, of course it is. What year would it be?”

She fainted.

Tom blinked at her for a moment, then hissed “ _Wake up!_ ” again.

They stared at each other for a moment, until Tom said, “You’re… not from… here, are you?”

She giggled hysterically for a moment before she regained enough composure to sit up and reply, “No, I actually _am_ from _here_ , well, Maidstone, in Kent, but yesterday it was… 1994.”

There was a long moment of silence, and then Tom spoke again. “So…what happened to you, then?”

“I…ah. I pissed off the seventh-year Ravenclaws something fierce.” The mysterious time-travelling girl started to babble, “I suppose being sent fifty-four years into the past is probably the _best_ case scenario, given the sort of spells they had to be messing around with to _get_ this result, but, well… what do you know about time travel? Read any Orson Welles, maybe? Don’t look at me like that. This is a _muggle_ orphanage, after all. I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen a time turner... by all accounts they weren’t really developed until the seventies. Bloody, buggering hell!”

She kept talking, but Tom was staring off into space, not paying attention. He had, in fact, read the Time Machine book. He thought time travel was a _fascinating_ concept, and had spent most of the year he turned ten thinking about the paradoxes related to time travel, and how to overcome them. He had, though he had never admitted it, spent much of his first semester at Hogwarts in the library, looking for information on time travel, and had only found a few legends from Merlin’s time about Avalon, and academics saying it wasn’t possible. Though apparently it would be, and thus, theoretically, already was. This was, he thought, the _most exciting thing_ he had ever heard. He couldn’t _wait_ to learn the details, and think of all the ways he could use it to his advantage as he rose to power in the magical world. If no one was going to know about it for the next thirty years, all he had to do was figure it out _first_ , and he had a head start because he _knew_ it was possible, and had an informant from the future who might be able to give him hints... He smiled as he turned back to the girl to start questioning her. All he managed to articulate, however, was, “What?” because the girl had started to cry.

“Why are you crying? Time travel is real! This is _amazing_!”

“Because… whatever your name is… you stupid, ignorant boy… This isn’t _normal_. I didn’t do it on _purpose_. There’s no way back. This was an accident, a one-way trip. I’m… I’m trapped in the past. It’s like I _fucking died_ , as far as everyone who knows me is concerned. Just… fuck.” She dissolved completely into tears.

Tom, for the first time in his life, albeit in a carefully calculated play to develop the affections of the girl who was going to help him take over the world, offered comfort to another human being. He sat gingerly on the edge of her bed and held the girl as she cried her heart out over losing everything she had ever known. “My name’s Tom,” he whispered into her hair, “Tom Riddle. And I’m going to get you home.”

She jerked her head up and met his eyes, tears and candlelight setting off caramel highlights in her dark brown irises. She gave him what could only be described as a calculating, evaluating look. And then she started to giggle hysterically again. He couldn’t quite make out what she said, but he _thought_ it was “The timeline is _so_ fucked.”


	10. Part 1: A Challenge Issued

Tom Riddle had given Hermione Granger a diary. She thought for several hours before she decided what to write, and in the end, there were tears on the page.

_21 July 1940_

_It’s 1940. I’m stuck in 1940. _

_With Tom Riddle, of all people. _

_I really shouldn’t ever have challenged Chang to that charm-casting contest. She just made me so mad._

_And if I had, I should have listened to the twins when he said that withdrawing gracefully was the better part of valor._

_But nooooo I just had to go and show her up in front of that Edgecombe girl. _

_Actually, I’m kind of surprised they were so vindictive about it. I wonder what they were actually trying to do? It had to be a curse or something on one of the books at the bottom of my trunk. That’s what I was doing, when I was “dislocated,” cleaning out my trunk. Maybe a portkey, gone terribly wrong? A Vanishment? Something age-related? Or just something that someone had been wanting to try out, and they thought they’d just throw it at me and see what happened? Well, joke’s on them, I guess, if it’s that. No data, you see._

_My parents must be going spare. It’s been three days, now. Unless, I guess, we do somehow figure out how to send me home, and de-age me, and haven’t bollixed up the timeline too far in the meanwhile. Oh, who am I kidding? The timeline went to hell the second I told Tom that I was from the future. My parents will report me missing, and then assume it had something to do with magic, and then kick up enough of a fuss that the ministry will probably obliviate them of my entire existence. I hope they do it soon. I don’t want them to suffer, wondering what happened to me. _

_My friends, they won’t know until September that I’m missing. I don’t imagine there will be much they can do about it, especially if it turns out that the Obliviators send my parents out of the country or something. I imagine they’ll get over it, eventually. I do feel bad for Harry, though. He’s lost an awful lot of people in his life already. And if the Dark Lord comes back, like they’ve been thinking he will, he’ll probably win if I’m not there to help oppose him. I mean, Harry’s the one who has to ultimately defeat him, but the only people who were really looking out for Harry were me and Ron, and Ron’s an idiot. Bloody prophesy. Maybe the twins will carry on for me…_

_But it’s not really my problem, anymore, I guess. That Bastard won’t even be around for another thirty years or so. Shit, Grindelwald’s still active in 1940, isn’t he? And – FUCK! The camps. People are dying in the camps… And this is only the start of it. God. There’s what? Another five years, millions dead, and the rationing doesn’t end until… 1959, I think. _

She had not intended to cry, but she had been so wrapped up in her thoughts of her friends and family, herself, and the implications of time travel _for herself_ , that she had forgotten more than once that World War II was only beginning. Every time she thought of it, it was a shock, tearing through the generally bleak, mournful attitude she couldn’t help having about her own prospects, and sending her into tears. Every new thing she thought of made it worse. She pulled herself together and re-read the first part, then finished writing what she had meant to.

**_I wonder how that will affect the magicals… It’s not like they grow their own food or anything._ **

**_By the way, Tom, I know you only gave me this journal so you could steal it and see what I’d written. I don’t care. I’m not going to say anything about why you were significant in my old future (oh, come on, you always knew you would be, right? That hardly counts.). It doesn’t matter, anyway. You’re still you, and who knows how the historical facts are going to change now, for you or for anyone? I’m certainly not planning on my ability to keep everything I know about what’s possible under wraps forever. It’s just, well, everything I know about history is subjunctive now._ **

**_The fact of my being here means that you’re going to have different priorities than you would have done in my old future’s past. If I don’t at some point just disappear as a temporal anomaly, we’re going to have to assume that we’re now in a parallel universe from the one I grew up in. On the plus side, since a very specific chain of events had to happen for me to get here, I imagine we should know soon. Or not. I suppose if I turn out to not have existed, you may not remember me. But I have faith in the ability of magic and the universe to resolve such paradoxes. So I’m leaning toward a multiverse theory. Sorry, tangent._ **

She paused again, considering the wording of the next section. There were reasons that one was not allowed to meddle with the Past. She knew, better than many, she thought, the implications of time travel, having used her Time Turner… perhaps a bit more than strictly-speaking _necessary_ the previous year. After all, if one could be in three places at once, there was no reason not to use that skill to slip in almost an entire school-year’s worth of free time to study whatever one liked in the depths of the Hogwarts library. There was a sharp stab of guilt as she wondered if the reason the accident had taken the form it did was that she had already spent so much time “displaced” from her proper place in the time stream. She wrenched her mind away from that thought.

The relevant bit, here, was that the timeline was relatively stable as long as you created stable “loops” – everything that you did would have already been done before, chronologically speaking. There were dozens of laws and regulations regarding what one was and was not allowed to do while making these loops, to avoid paradoxes. Unstable loops, the little ones, had a tendency to collapse, leaving one chronologically in the past with hazy half-memories of your own subjective past-chronological future.

No one knew what happened when you created a loop that _couldn’t_ close, but there were theories. Multiverse Theory suggested that one was transported not only in time, but also across an additional dimension, into (or creating) a parallel universe, which had (probably) always existed, but which your consciousness had not inhabited. Hermione liked that idea ever so slightly more than the Revisionist Theory, which was simply that by changing the past, one changed the future, and either blinked out or became a “persistent magical anomaly” once the universe reached a state of paradox (she thought this seemed like a cop-out), or the Complex Dependent Major Loops theory, which suggested she would live the rest of her life from this point, and herself or someone else would eventually go back to the past and somehow change it again, so that her original self and personality would develop and contrive to be sent back again to live the life she was currently living, making a sort of co-dependent (but stable) pair of Major Loops, like a limited multiverse theory. She thought the CDML was probably the most likely scenario. In any case, it hardly mattered. The rules, such as they were, were the same, and boiled down to “minimize your impact”. Time travelers were supposed to avoid seeing or talking to anyone, especially anyone important, and in the event that they did get “lost”, they were to report to the Unspeakables for assistance in controlling their footprint.

That, she thought, would be impossible, as she had _already_ told Tom fucking Riddle that she was from 1994. Everyone knew that people with a natural talent for the Mind Arts were resistant to memory modification and truth serums, and Dumbledore had said that Lord Voldemort was the best natural Legilimens he’d ever met. There was really no going back. The best she could hope for, really, was to try to stop things from going _wrong_ in the first place, and not let anyone _else_ know. Besides, if it was the CDML, it would work out in the end. So.

**_Anyway, it’s 10am and I’m going to help clear the streets. If you read this before I find you, come talk to me. We need to come up with a cover story for me. It can’t get out that I’m from the 1990s. I can’t even imagine what Dumbledore or Grindelwald would do if they found out, but the fact that they might get the jump on time travel research and scoop you is probably the least of it. _ **

**_Yes, I know that’s the only reason you’re being my friend. I also know that you won’t care that I know, aside from maybe being a bit irritated that I saw through you. You still have to be nice to me so I’ll help you, don’t think my admitting I know gets you out of that. But I do so hate playing dumb. And there are more important things to be sneaky and deceptive about, at the moment. Or maybe I’m just encouraging you to play this game on a deeper level to keep things more interesting. Could be both. I can just imagine the look on your face. It’s adorable. So come find me._ **

**_HJG_ **

***

Tom read the first entry in Hermione’s journal, which she had left in her pillowcase, clearly to hide it from her roommates more than from him. He smirked, and started thinking of all the inferences he could make from her words as he wandered the halls of the orphanage and then the surrounding streets, looking for his wayward companion.

She had written him a note.

She had known that he was tricking her (well, trying to), and preying on her trust, and she didn’t seem to _mind_.

 _Interesting_. On the whole, he had observed, people generally minded very much when they realized they were being manipulated.

The first half, the journal-entry bit, that didn’t really seem to be too important, aside from the fact that she obviously knew his name, which was gratifying in a way. It was nice to find confirmation that he would succeed in gaining enough power that his name would be known throughout the Wizarding World in fifty years.

The girl had been upset, Tom thought. The first half of the page was blotted with tears, and she had nearly pierced the page with her pen when she mentioned these “camps,” whatever that meant.

She had clearly had parents and friends, but he couldn’t see that they mattered much, since they were out of his reach in the future. He could, he supposed, find out their names and stop them from having been born, but that would just increase the number of paradoxes in action, and wouldn’t really help him, since he couldn’t predict the outcome of the action. In fact, he thought, there wasn’t really much of _anything_ he could do to this girl to make her help him, except make her hurt, maybe. And torture really didn’t guarantee honest efforts in cooperation.

The fact that it had been a Ravenclaw, or a group of them, that had sent her back was noteworthy, but not necessarily useful if they were using something that hadn’t been developed yet, or it really had been some sort of accident with a new or existing spell. That was clearly no place to start.

He wondered idly who this Dark Lord was, who would rise in thirty years or so, and then if it even mattered. If he hadn’t managed to take over by then, he thought he would be in a good position for a power play by then. Maybe he could nip this “Dark Lord” in the bud and take his place.

He wondered if she was specifically _trying_ to derail history, mentioning dates and historical events. Maybe she hadn’t liked her old future’s past. And then he spent a couple of minutes wondering how the muggle war and rationing _would_ affect the magical world. He had fully planned on hiding out in the magical world until the War was over, but maybe she was right. He had no idea how interrelated the muggle and magical worlds were, at a really basic level.

She was obviously a muggleborn, or a half-blood raised in the muggle world, since she called magicals “they.”

She was right that she needed a cover story, if only because, as she had mentioned, it would be detrimental to his plans if someone else discovered how time travel worked first. She couldn’t be British, because if she were, the Magical Student Registry at Hogwarts would have sent her a letter years ago. Maybe she could pretend to be French? Or if she only spoke English, then American, maybe. They could tell Dippet that she was a cousin on his Father’s side… or, no. There was no reason that any parent would willingly send their child into the Blitz. Perhaps she could pretend to have lost all her memories. It wouldn’t explain anything, but they wouldn’t be expected to be able to explain… Unless Dumbledore thought he could fix it using Legilimency, in which case they would be, in Hermione’s words, fucked. So she was right. They needed to talk about this.

And then he came back to the oh-so-casual “ _By the way, Tom_ …” Too casual, maybe. He thought she had left and come back to write the letter. Her handwriting was shaky at the beginning, and then not. There were no teardrops on the letter to him.

He honestly wasn’t sure what to make of the note. Obviously she had been correct. He had only wanted to see what she would write. But should he revise his estimation of her intelligence upward, for seeing him clearly, or down, for admitting it? Was this what she _wanted_ , for him to be confused? Maybe. But what purpose would it serve for her, for the only person who knew the truth to be irritated with her?

And was he really that predictable? Or transparent? He had thought his impression of a charming young man was quite good. And to call the face he would make at her challenge _adorable_ , was she _flirting_ with him? If she really _did_ have any measure of him at all, that was truly inexplicable.

But, well… _did_ he care, when it came right down to it? That she knew and had given up that point of potential leverage, possibly only to confuse him? No. He really didn’t. In fact, the fact that it had worked so well was frustrating, which was interesting. But it also meant she was right again. Which in turn argued that she _did_ know more about him than he thought she possibly could.

She made him want to scream.

She wasn’t with any of the work crews clearing the streets. He supposed she must have wandered off, or gone back to the orphanage.

He walked, thinking, until dark, as usual, and then returned to the orphanage himself, to find the infuriating girl waiting in his room.


	11. Part 1: Finding One's Feet

Tom froze in the doorway, his blood cold with rage at the thought of the time traveler invading his private space.

She was lying on his bed, propped up on her elbows, reading a maths text. The box of things he had taken from the other children, the ones that Dumbledore had pretended to burn when he had come to introduce Tom to magic, was sitting on his desk.

He stalked into the room and seized the box, returning it to its proper place before turning to the girl. “What the _hell_ are you doing in here?”

She had sat up while he was moving the box. “You read my journal. It seemed only fair that I invade your privacy as well. Tit for tat, you know? Well, actually, I don’t know if you do… Game theory ringing any bells?” She shrugged at his confusion. “Must be a newer thing, then. You’d like it, though, I think. It’s all about making the _most advantageous_ decision in a given situation.”

“Gah!” Tom was distantly surprised at the inarticulate noise, even as he made it, “I don’t know what you think you know about me, but you don’t! _No one_ is allowed in here! _No one_!” and then he hissed at her, “ _Hurt!_ ”

She went pale for a moment with an “Oof,” and a shudder, but recovered quickly. He stared. “You asshole. First off, I’m a witch. My magic protects me from your “orders” just as well as yours would protect you from me. Now, granted, you have more control than most, but get it through your thick skull right now: I’m not one of your idiot muggle toys to push around and torture when you’re bored or angry.

“Secondly, I _know_ things about you because, as much as I’m sure you like to think you’re unique, you’re not. You have a type, at least where I come from. One to four percent of the population. I know about _people like you_. You’re charming when you want to be, but lie all the time. You always think of yourself and have no empathy for others. You have an _overwhelming_ sense of superiority and entitlement, which I can only assume has been re-enforced by growing up as the only person you knew with magic. And you’re manipulative, which is probably why you’re in Slytherin. You have no sense of right and wrong, aside from ‘it’s mine if I can take it’ and ‘don’t get caught by the wrong people’. You respect power, grudgingly, and it’s your life’s ambition to have _more_ power than anyone else, so that you don’t have to answer to anyone but yourself. _Am I close?_ ”

Somewhere in Hermione’s tirade, Tom’s mouth had dropped open. She was kneeling on the bed, now, and glaring fiercely at him. He nodded before he could stop himself. Had that been an order?

“Good boy,” she sneered at him, “Then maybe we can renegotiate the terms of our relationship. I will help you with your pursuit of time travel and associated taking-over-the-world activities. You will respect my advice, not treat me like an idiot, and help me with projects I come up with if you think they’re interesting enough. We will both respect each other’s privacy, or rather, if you don’t respect mine, I won’t respect yours. We will not sabotage each other. Should I end up in Slytherin or Ravenclaw, we will form an active alliance. If by some fluke I end up in Gryffindor again, which I truly don’t expect, given my current priorities, we will have a truce. And you will _not_ assume that I am subordinate or submissive to you in any way. Agreed?”

“Um, yes?” Tom was still slightly stunned, for the first time since Dumbledore had set his wardrobe on fire.

“Good.” She nodded and dropped back down to sit more comfortably. “I’ll work out the wording and we’ll swear a binding magical vow on it when we’re back at school.”

Tom finally sat as well. It _was_ his bed, after all and the desk chair was hideously uncomfortable. “A vow? Seriously?”

“I’m not going to trust you with anything less, and you’d be a fool to trust me, so yes.”

Tom shrugged as he recovered his equilibrium. He would still be getting the better end of the deal, he thought. “Fine, but I’m not taking it without reading it first, and if I don’t like your wording, we’re changing it.”

Hermione smiled and watched his face closely as she continued, “Good. I knew you weren’t stupid. But while we’re on the subject, keeping trophies is objectively idiotic. You don’t seem like the kind of person to have keepsakes, so I’m guessing that’s what the box is, yes?”

Tom glared, and said nothing.

“Hmmm…well, you’re too young for rape, and I doubt you’d have gotten away with murder at your age, with no, well, only a little magic, to help you, outside of school…torture, then? Maybe bullying victims?”

The tension around the corners of his mouth had increased at _torture_ , then relaxed again.

“Torture, then. I imagine that command you tried to use on me is _much_ more effective on muggles, yes? FYI, it was kind of like being punched in the stomach and dunked in ice water before I fought it off. Tell me, Tom, do you like it when they hurt? Does their pain make you excited?” Nothing. “Or is it about control, letting them know, _making them see_ who’s in charge?” His nostrils flared, and she laughed. “Got it.”

Tom finally cracked. “What are you _doing_? How are you… are you a _legilimens_?” He accused her in a harsh whisper. It seemed so unlikely, but then she was an unlikely person in so many ways…

She grinned at her own trick. “No, it’s actually a muggle technique, cold reading. You just keep babbling about things and watching your target’s reactions until you hit on the thing that they are trying to hide. Seriously, though. Trophies are a terrible habit, even if it’s just for small stuff now. If you ever do move on to more serious crimes, it would be really easy to prove you’d done it, once they were found. And I hate to think what aurors could do with that kind of thing, as far as tracking spells go and whatnot.”

That was an excellent point, and her helpful suggestion only served to make him more suspicious. “Why are you telling me these things?”

She shrugged, as though her reason didn’t matter. Maybe it didn’t. “Well, I’m proving I’m useful to you, and making up for the fact that I pushed you so hard earlier on the alliance thing, because I know you’d hate that, and might be tempted to make something out of it because I doubt you like being vulnerable or feeling stupid. Plus I’m reinforcing that I actually am smarter than you when it comes to some things, and knowledge is power, so hopefully that will gain me some respect, and it makes me feel better because I’ve been mourning the loss of my life for the last three days, and showing off is always an ego boost.

“ _Now_ I’m demonstrating that I am capable of using thought processes similar enough to yours that you may be tempted to consider me a _person_ , more like yourself than the, what do you call them? Toys? Sheep? Pets? Normal people, anyway. I’m wagering that you will find this interesting enough, find _me_ interesting enough, to consider _not_ sending any hope at an alliance down in flames before we even get back to school.”

If Tom had any measure of the girl at all, then, there were probably several more reasons as well, the ones she thought he wouldn’t understand or wouldn’t like. He considered asking about them, but decided he had a better question. “Idiots. Mostly I call normal people idiots. But you’re giving up your knowledge for free, so where’s the gain for you? The more things you tell me, the less power you have over me.”

She shook her head impatiently. “Knowledge is not a zero-sum game, Tom. I don’t lose it just because I shared it with you. And power’s not that simple. Knowing things about you, or how people work, doesn’t matter in the slightest if you don’t know I know them. If I’m honest, I’m not really ambitious. I don’t have anything I want to do with my knowledge, so it’s better to spend that coin and let you know about the kind of power I potentially have over other people, rather than hope that keeping it secret will somehow help me manipulate you more effectively. Which it might, but what would I want you to do? Or I guess you could say I have less _potential_ power over you, but your knowing makes me a better ally, which may give me _more_ net power over you and others in the future. It’s a calculated risk.”

Tom, Hermione thought, looked like someone had just smacked him. Maybe with a fish. “You,” he began, “are… the most… _confusing_ individual I think I’ve ever met. It’s like…If a Slytherin were to completely forego all subtlety, and just barge in using Gryffindor tactics… Either you’re terrible at this game, or you’re the best player I’ve ever met, and _I have no idea which one it is_.”

“Why, Tom,” said the girl with a grin, “Could it be that you are actually interested in another person as a sapient agent?”

“I have no idea what that means, but by your tone, I think the answer is ‘no,’” he said, coldly.

“Ah, I’ll tone down the psych stuff, sorry,” her joking tone was gone, “I forgot for a second that none of that’s been invented yet… I was asking if you see me as having the potential to, well, probably not be an equal, as you don’t think you have equals, but,” she thought for a moment, as though trying to figure out how to translate a particularly obscure term, “as an unknown variable in your plans… a person who is not just a pawn to be manipulated by a player such as yourself, if not actually another player. The tone was to indicate that it was a joke, and that I wouldn’t necessarily take your answer seriously. I do appreciate the compliment though.”

“Explaining that it was a joke ruined it, you know,” Tom observed, matching the dry tone of her explanation of the joke. “It would have been funny if you’d stopped after explaining the agent thing.”

Hermione shrugged. Tom waited an appropriate amount of time to change the subject. “If you’re so into sharing knowledge, tell me, crazy girl, why did you ever think to learn all of these things?”

“Well, I never fit in much as a kid, and spent a lot of time trying to figure out why. It wasn’t just the magic. I didn’t fit in at Hogwarts, either. I ended up reading a lot of psychology and social psychology the last few summers. So, I guess it boils down to, while I was trying to figure out what was wrong with me, I stumbled across a lot of information on what was wrong with _you_ , and how to use people and get them to do what you want and so on.”

“People actually write books on that sort of thing?”

“Well not yet, but they will. After this war… the world gets a lot more cynical.”

“This is so weird. Did you ever find out what’s wrong with _you_?” It had not, in fact, escaped Tom’s notice over the past three days that his time traveling visitor was somewhat… off. And this was coming from _Tom_. Though he wouldn’t admit it, he knew his tendencies toward violence weren’t _normal_. He would admit, however, that he was surprised Hermione was aware of her own strangeness. He had thought he was precocious in realizing the fact that he was not only better but fundamentally different than other people at the age of eleven. Most of the other children at Hogwarts did not seem so self-aware.

Hermione looked surprised, for some reason. “No, not specifically. I’m beginning to think that I’m just _that much_ smarter than most of my peers, so I inadvertently isolated myself from them and went kind of odd with no one around to complain. I’ve been trying to tone it down, but I really, really hate playing dumb. Teasing you is the most fun I’ve had in… years, probably.”

“Teasing?”

“Well, yeah. What else would you call this?” She was smiling again.

“Antagonizing? Yes, probably _antagonizing_.” He glared at her again, but he wasn’t really angry anymore.

She laughed, but said, “Hmmm… and here I thought I you were appreciating talking to me just as much as I was appreciating talking to you. Ah, well, you were looking for me so we could talk about a cover story, right?”

“Yes, I was…”

They talked until the candle burned out. By the time they went to sleep, they had a plan, and were no longer circling each other quite so cautiously.


	12. Part 1: Letters and Plots

23 July 1940

Hermione Jean Granger  
Wool’s Orphanage  
East End, London

Dear Headmaster Dippet,

I am sending you this letter via the same owl used to send Mr. Tom Riddle his supply lists for this year. I hope that is alright. My situation is rather irregular, I’m afraid, and is a matter of some urgency.

My name is Hermione Granger. I recently moved to London from the United States to live with my estranged father, a muggle, following the death of my mother. He was killed when his home collapsed in one of the air raids last week. I managed to escape, and have since been placed in an orphanage by the muggle authorities, where I was most fortunate to meet Mr. Riddle, who has helped me tremendously in attempting to navigate Magical Britain. It is at his suggestion I am writing to you.

I am given to understand that your school, Hogwarts, will remain open throughout the war, as it is a requirement in Europe for witches and wizards to pass competency examinations before they can legally use magic in the outside world. Restrictions are not so strict in the States, and though I have received some tutoring from my mother, I doubt very much that I am capable of passing your exams quite yet, as Mr. Riddle informs me that they are normally administered to your fifth-year students. I do not, however, wish to find myself in violation of any laws or regulations as I attempt to make a life for myself here.

Is there any way that I may apply to enter your school as a transfer student of sorts? I will be fifteen this September, which Mr. Riddle says would make me a fourth-year, but if there is some sort of placement exam I might take, I would be very pleased to do so.

Eagerly awaiting your response,  
Hermione Granger

* * *

 

_“Perfect. Sounds like a fourteen-year-old wrote it, implies you’re a half-blood, explains why you don’t know anything about our customs – New World’s all a bunch of heathens, you know. And it even explains why you came to London in the middle of the Blitz.”_

_“I don’t know. You don’t think it’s too sappy to mention my ‘family tragedy’?”_

_“No, if I know Dippet, he’ll feel so sorry for you, he might try to get you a scholarship.”_

* * *

24 July 1940

Armando Dippet, MCh, MTr, MRu  
Office of the Headmaster  
Hogwarts Castle

Dear Miss Granger,

My condolences on your recent loss.

Your letter of inquiry will be considered your application for transfer to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Standard procedure for transfer students to Hogwarts includes a meeting with the Deputy Head to be tested on theoretical knowledge in the core areas of study: Charms, Transfiguration, Potions, Herbology, Defense Against the Dark Arts, and History of Magic. Unfortunately Deputy Headmaster Dumbledore will not be available this summer to administer the examination, but Professor Slughorn has graciously volunteered to visit you on Friday, the 23rd of August, in order to do so.

After you have been placed in the appropriate year, you will be provided a list of supplies and a portkey to take you to Diagon Alley, which has been moved to Cambridge for the Duration. Mr. Riddle will, I am sure, assist you in catching the Express from Kings’ Cross to Hogwarts on Saturday, the 31st of August.

Regarding your tuition and fees, non-English and muggleborn students are required to pay tuition, as their parents’ taxes do not support the school. I am happy to inform you that, due to your unique circumstances, conditional on your acceptance, you have been offered a scholarship to cover your tuition for the year. Unfortunately we are unable to waive the general and lab fees, which come to a total of 120 galleons, payable through Gringott’s Wizarding Bank, or on arrival at Hogwarts to the Office of the Bursar. You will also be responsible for acquiring your own books and supplies.

After arriving at Hogwarts, you must meet with Deputy Head Dumbledore in order to complete the enrollment paperwork, the ministry registration, and the scholarship forms. He will send you an owl with the details. You will also need to demonstrate your practical skills to each of the instructors for the core classes. Should they find your skills wanting, you will be placed in remedial classes on weekends to bring you up to speed. Your head of house will be responsible for organizing these lessons.

I look forward to meeting you this September.

Yours,  
Armando Dippet, Headmaster of Hogwarts

* * *

Hermione and Tom sat on Tom’s bed as she read Headmaster Dippet’s response aloud.

“Ha, told you so! Stroke of luck that Dumbledore’s on the Continent this summer. Slug’s a pushover.”

“Well, that’s all well and good, but I still have to find 120 galleons before the end of the summer. And maybe another 40 for a new wand, cauldron, telescope, ingredients and so on. Robes. Bloody hell. Better call it 180, all told. I’ll use the library’s books, if I have to. My parents took out a loan the first time, but I don’t think I can do that without a guardian. What’s the exchange rate here in fabulous 1940, anyway?” Hermione frowned at the parchment in her hand.

“5 pounds to a galleon. So 900 pounds?” Tom was not terribly interested. His tuition, fees, and materials were fully covered as long as he didn’t buy anything too extravagant, as he was a British citizen, and his mother had been a British witch.

“What? No, that can’t be right.” She looked at him in astonishment.

He glared back. They had reached a point of truce over the past two days, but he still suspected she was having him on most of the time. “Pretty sure five times 180 is 900.”

“What, no…” She shook her head, brown curls flying in all directions. “That’s the exchange rate in 1994.”

“So what?”

“So,” the young witch said slowly, “I might have an idea as to how I’m going to find 900 pounds in a month…”

“I’m listening.” _This should be good_ , thought Tom.

“Well first, what’s the price of gold? Any idea?”

“Maybe 9 pounds an ounce? A little less.”

“Really? It’s like, ten times that, at least, in 1994. It should still work, though, since there’s a discrepancy. We’ll just have to go the other direction. Gringotts will let you exchange galleons for their weight in gold, right? Or gold for galleons?”

“Yes, of course. It’s their standard.”

“So if I were to buy an ounce of gold for 9 pounds at a muggle jeweler’s and then take that gold to Gringotts and exchange it for galleons, I would have three galleons, right?”

“Sure. Less their exchange fee. Five percent, I think.”

“And if I took those three galleons and exchanged them for pounds, they’d have to give me fifteen pounds, right?”

“Again, less an exchange fee.”

“But discounting the fees, that’s a 167% return on the original investment of 9 pounds. So say we do this again, starting with fifteen pounds. It’s an exponential return, so it would take, what? Nine, ten runs back and forth to make 900 pounds sterling? Call it 10, to account for the fees.”

“That cannot be legal.” The admiration in Tom’s eyes was clear.

Hermione shrugged with a self-satisfied smile. “Perils of fixed exchange rates. The goblins don’t care where gold comes from. We’d just have to go to different jewelers so they didn’t figure out what was going on and raise the prices on us. It’s basic economics. Besides, why do you care if it’s legal?”

Tom grinned. “Well, I’d like to not get caught if it’s not.”

“So, we’ve got a month and a bit to take advantage of the idiocy of the ministry before we’re back to school. All we need is some start up cash, a Gringott’s branch, and a jeweler. How much money have you got?”

***

Gringotts’ had not closed their main London branch: they had simply opened a new, temporary branch in Cambridge as well, to serve the transported Diagon Alley. There were a surprising number of gold vendors in the City, still, though eventually the prices, fixed though they were meant to be, began to creep upward, and they resorted to buying from dental surgeons’ suppliers, who stockpiled the precious metal for fillings, and chemists at the Royal College. In the end, the children had time to make seventeen runs before Professor Slughorn arrived on the 23rd of August.

It turned out that Tom had had only a single pound to his name, and, as they realized that they could not safely transport and exchange anything more than five pounds, they organized a veritable battalion of muggle and wizarding adults bribed a percentage to broker the exchanges, which increased their overhead somewhat, but after the fees and bribes were paid, they came out of it with 1477 pounds, or 295 galleons and 10 sickles. Hermione paid her fees through the bank, and they split the remainder evenly, opening new personal vaults. They were quite pleased with themselves.

Hermione was terribly happy to find a sense of camaraderie growing between herself and the young Tom Riddle. Somewhere, in the course of their dealings, she found herself wanting to be his friend, and shape him into the kind of person who would _not_ become a Dark Lord, even if he _did_ still try to take over the world. After all, someone had to lead, and from what she had seen in the 1990s, the Wizengamot did a terrible job. She _liked_ Tom, against her better judgment, and thought that he might grow up to make a good leader, if he had ever had certain aspects of human nature explained to him. She thought she might help him by teaching him how _not_ to destroy the world in his quest to rule it. And if that meant she would be in a position to direct him toward _not_ becoming Lord Voldemort, so much the better.

Tom was richer than he had ever been in his life, and once he got past feeling like an idiot for never having realized the potential of exploiting the system before (and resenting Hermione for making him feel like an idiot), he realized that the economy was a whole new world of power he had never even considered. It was very nice to have the money for a decent wardrobe, and a proper haircut, and the way people looked at him when he looked like a capable young man rather than a ragamuffin orphan boy was… good, he thought. They _paid attention_ to him. He decided that he would, as promised, take Hermione’s advice seriously and not treat her like an idiot, especially if it continued to yield results like this.

The goblins, it must be said, were very impressed. Not with the children’s subterfuge – that was lacking, they thought, in a certain amount of style, and the whole program was rushed, in their general opinion – but in the fact that they had noticed the opportunity at all. Ragnok won the pool on how long it would take a wizard to systematically exploit the exchange system, which had been growing since the late 1600s, when the Wizengamot had fixed the exchange rates. Karak Malcon, the leader of the Gringott clan, added Hermione Granger and Tom Riddle to the list of humans one would be advised to recognize. It was an exclusive list. There were only nine entries from Britain, including the two children.

***

Over the course of the Gringott’s Plot, as the children took to calling it, they watched each other carefully for signs of betrayal and, at some level, on both sides, trying to understand each other. Hermione would often look up and think that Tom looked rather like he was studying some rare and unusual insect, quite unlike anything he had ever seen before. Tom would often think that Hermione was trying to evaluate him out of the corner of her eye. On several occasions they stared at each other for long moments, as though trying to read each other’s thoughts in their eyes, though of course neither could. Hermione was certain that to an outsider, their relationship, long serious discussions and daring antics, punctuated by long, though not meaningful stares, would seem entirely odd, especially since, she noticed as the weeks wore on, Tom had started to copy certain of her mannerisms and speech patterns. She wondered if it was intentional.

It wasn’t. Tom caught himself biting his lip as he thought, one day, a particularly Hermione-esque expression and paused, astonished. He tried to think of other habits he might have picked up from her, and utterly failed. It was entirely unconscious. For the next three days, he watched himself almost as closely as he watched her, and found, to his utter amazement, that he was starting to sound like the girl, and even sometimes to stand or move around the room like her. _She’s bloody contagious. What the hell is she doing to me?_

It took another two days for Tom to confront her about it, quite angrily. She only shrugged, and said that it happened to everyone, if they spent enough time together. Hadn’t he noticed, the way she now brushed her hair out of her eyes, or said the word “ _ser_ iously,” exactly like Tom? He had grumped a bit longer, but when she shrugged and said “suit your own bloody self” before turning back to her book, Tom could have been looking in a mirror, and was finally satisfied that he was changing her as much as she was changing him.

And it was true. Aside from minor mannerisms, over the course of the Plot, Tom had come to see power and potential in a whole new light, while Hermione had come to appreciate opportunities to _take advantage_ of power (though she thought that might just be the circumstances, not Tom’s influence). Each was becoming more the sort of person the other might someday be able to trust, though of course neither would believe that the other was not doing it intentionally, for some nefarious purpose.

Unbeknownst to each other, they went to bed sharing a thought: _I wonder how far this will go?_


	13. Part 1: Of Slytherin and Parseltongue

23 August 1940

Professor Horace Slughorn arrived at Wool’s Orphanage at 10:30 am on the 23rd of August, attempted to speak to the matron for a moment, then gave up and _confunded_ her before shouting for Tom. He had only volunteered to come and administer the exams for the Granger girl because she had had the good fortune to fall into the hands of his young protégé. He had known Tom was an orphan, but had not previously had the opportunity to visit him in his summer home.

Tom ushered him upstairs to his own bedroom, explaining that Miss Granger’s roommates were in, so he had offered his own chamber for their meeting. Miss Granger tried unsuccessfully to hide a smile as Tom spoke, though Horace could not see what was so funny about the situation.

Miss Granger answered all of the third-year magical theory questions exceedingly thoroughly, though she was not familiar enough with the fourth-year materials to be moved ahead. Horace was pleased to note that the education standards of the New World were apparently keeping pace with those in Europe. He adjusted the portkey for Diagon Alley so that it would return the children to Tom’s room when they were done with their shopping, handed them the tickets which served as portkeys to Platform 9 ¾ to save the school an owl, and bid them good day. He was satisfied that he had done his duty to the school, and that Tom was as happy and healthy as it was possible for a child living in London to be, at a time like this. He departed at 12:30, just in time, he thought, to pop by Diagon Alley for a solid lunch before ordering a few rarer potions ingredients to be shipped to the Castle, and making his way back himself.

…

No sooner had Professor Slughorn left than Hermione burst out laughing.

“Tom, I had no idea you were such a good actor!”

“I’ve had a lot of practice managing authority figures, thank you very much.” He affected a scowl, but gave it up after a moment. After all, it wasn’t often someone was in a position to appreciate his skills, and he did like the praise. “You weren’t so bad yourself,” he offered, then began imitating Hermione, “It’s quite obvious that the relation between banishing and summoning charms is not simply one of opposites, but that it is more complex, as the floating charm is similar in its wand movements, but I’m afraid I couldn’t say the general underlying principle.”

“Well, I didn’t want to skip ahead a year. It wouldn’t help me at all if I’m trying to avoid Dumbledore’s notice, would it?” They had discussed it at length, and decided that avoiding Dumbledore’s notice would be the key to remaining unmolested in 1940. He was, as far as either of them could see, the biggest threat at Hogwarts.

“Wait, you actually _know_ the Underlying Principle of Motion Charms? The Principles are a fifth-year topic. And it’s definitely arithmancy at that point, not charms.”

Hermione shrugged, as she was wont to do when she was pleased with herself. “I like to read. And I noticed they all had those movements in common, so I went and looked it up.” That was true, she thought virtuously, though only insofar as she had read through all of the fourth, fifth, and sixth-year text-books over the course of her extraordinarily long third year. She smirked, “I learned the Transfiguration Basics, too, though hardly _anyone_ uses those. It’s good practice for shaping magic. Makes it easier to do wordless and wandless spells, or so I hear.”

“What are the Transfiguration Basics?”

“All the different wand movements that translate into different aspects of the transfiguration spells. If you’re making a new spell in transfiguration, you start by figuring out the Basics to define the beginning and end states, and mode of transformation, then minimizing them into one or two movements. The way you focus your will while you’re envisioning the transformation also affects the way in which the change occurs. So like that match-needle trick they have the firsties do, most people turn the wood to steel first, then alter the shape, but some alter the shape and then transform the material. At least at first. Most learn to do it simultaneously eventually.”

Tom was staring. Hermione didn’t think he had blinked the whole time she was talking.

“What?”

He blinked. “You are such a geek, Granger. How were you not a Ravenclaw, again?”

“The Hat said I’d do more good in Gryffindor. Personally I think it just likes having an even split between the houses,” she added with a sniff.

“Right… do us a favor and insist on Slytherin this time around.”

“Oh, why would _you_ want me to do such a thing? Not that I don’t appreciate the compliment, I do know how you lot consider it the highest of praise to say that someone ought to have been in your house. And I’m sure I’d do alright there. But why’s it a favor to you?” She smirked, knowing that the answer would be flattering.

Tom smirked back. “Well, you didn’t seem surprised that _I_ know of the Underlying Principles, and I could really use someone to talk to who’s not an idiot. Seriously, I don’t know how you stand it, dealing with _normal_ people day after day. It makes me want to kill them. Incoherent screams of pain are more sensible than the average conversation I hear in the Great Hall at breakfast.”

She laughed. Tom was _very_ smart, and it _was_ nice to talk to someone who had his own intellectual interests. “That’s not a favor. It’s mutually beneficial. And mostly I just tune them all out and think about other things, like fifth-year arithmancy texts. What do you do? I know you don’t actually go around killing people just because they’re dull.”

“Well, um…” _That’s odd_ , thought Hermione, looking the boy in the eye _, Tom hardly ever stutters_. “I spend a lot of my time looking for the Chamber of Secrets.” He looked almost defiant. It took her a moment to realize that in 1940, everyone still thought the Chamber of Secrets was a myth.

She bit her lip, thinking hard, then decided to throw caution to the winds. “Do you want to know where it is?”

The look on his face was priceless: absolute shock. She wished she had had a camera, or a pensive, to save the memory. “How _the hell_ do you know where the Chamber of Secrets is?”

“A lot changes in fifty years, Tom. It’s pretty common knowledge,” she lied, then justified it, thinking, _well, it’s much more common than now, at any rate_.

“Where is it, then?”

She laughed. “Second floor girls’ loo. There’s a little snake carved into one of the taps. I think you have to tell it to open in Parseltongue.”

“Why would the entrance be in a girls’ bathroom?”

“I’m sure _I_ don’t know. Salazar Slytherin was a nutter? Or it wasn’t always a _girls’_ loo? I think it’s most likely that one of his heirs moved it, though. I mean, it can’t always have had that tap in place. Believe me, I did give the issue a lot of thought at one point. I even looked up the history of plumbing in the Wizarding world. It was…weird.”

Tom spoke over her last sentence. “And Slytherin’s monster? It’s a basilisk, right?”

She nodded.

“I KNEW IT!” Tom had jumped up and was pacing the small space of his room which was not taken up by his bed, desk, or wardrobe. “This is going to be the BEST year ever.”

“Hey, Tom.”

“Yeah?”

“Do me a favor?”

“What is it?”

“Don’t go letting the basilisk kill muggleborns or anything like that, yeah?”

“Done. Easy favor. Why on Earth would I have it go after muggleborns?”

“Well, isn’t the story that Slytherin left his monster to cleanse the school after he was kicked out?”

Tom shook his head violently. “No, that’s just pureblood politics re-writing history. How do you know where the Chamber is, but not know that story? Slytherin left after a domestic disagreement with Lady Ravenclaw. The other founders sided with her. Something about their kids, I think, from what I got the Grey Lady and the Baron to tell me last year. He didn’t trust muggles, because he grew up in an era of witch hunts, but he didn’t hate muggleborns. Honestly I think he’d probably have wanted to save you from your families, since they would have wanted to kill you for being a witch.

“No. I’d sooner have it go after those pureblood asshats who’ve been making my life in Slytherin a desolate wasteland of hellish tedium for the last three years.” He grinned. “It would be great to prove to everyone that I’m the Heir of Slytherin, but honestly, I just want to talk to it. A _basilisk_. They’re supposed to be intelligent, and live for thousands of years. It’s really likely that it knew Slytherin personally, and can tell me about the founders, and there’s probably a ton of ancient spells that couldn’t be written that he might have taught it, to pass on to his heirs, and I bet there’s a library – no one’s ever found his personal chambers, you know, so it’s entirely possible that _that’s_ where he was hiding out when he was living at the school. And he did all the warding for the castle. Can you imagine looking over those diagrams? This is going to be amazing!”

Hermione was grinning almost as broadly as Tom. “Hey, Tom. Are you sure you’re not a Ravenclaw?”

“Shut up! A week is far too long to wait! Why did you have to tell me _now_?” he wailed in false despair.

“It didn’t occur to me to tell you before, and all things considered, I figured you’d rather know as soon as possible? So do I get to come with you, to see the mythical library of Salazar Slytherin?”

“Of _course_ you do, don’t be stupid. I’ll even teach you the Parsel to open the gates and give the Basilisk orders. You won’t be able to really _talk_ to it, but you should be able to tell it not to attack you.”

“You can teach someone Parseltongue? I thought it was an inherited curse or something like that.”

“Well, it is, so not all of it. And not fluently. You’d never understand a snake talking to you. But basic commands are pretty easy. ‘Open’ is _open_ , for example.”

The Parsel word for ‘open’ was a sound like _hhhrth._ Hermione tried to imitate it. “ _HHrrrth”_

Tom _giggled_. “No, do you know how to whistle without using your fingers?” She nodded. “Make your mouth like you would for this note,” he whistled, “and then instead of whistling, just kind of breathe out over your tongue. That’s the first part. _hhh. hhh.”_

Hermione whistled the note, then tried again, thinking that Tom had obviously given this a lot of thought. “ _Hhh. Hhh.”_

“Softer at the beginning.”

“ _hhh.”_

“Right! And then the second part, you kind of let the tip of your tongue go from where it was before to all broad and flat, and kind of pressed down behind your teeth. _rth. rth. hhhrth_ ”

“ _hhhRIRth._ No, wait _. hhhRTH.”_

“Closer the second time, but there’s no emphasis on either syllable.”

“ _HhhRth.”_

“Maybe try not to think of them as different syllables at all. And keep your airflow continuous throughout.”

“ _hhhrtHa._ ”

“Close, but you breathed out too fast at the end. Control the aspiration of the last _‘h’_.”

“ _hhhrth._ ”

“Yes! Say it again!”

“ _hhhrth. hhhrth._ ” Tom clapped like a small child, and Hermione beamed. Clearly, despite his confidence in the possibility, Tom had never taught anyone else to say anything in Parsel before.

“I know what we’re doing for the rest of the week!”

“Don’t forget, we do need to do some shopping one of these days. We didn’t go to all that trouble making money for nothing. And then I’ll want to look through the textbooks, at least once each.”

“Fine, Monday. Most of the shops are will be closed over the weekend, anyway. But until then, Parsel class!” Tom demanded, then rolled off his bed and pulled his trunk out of his wardrobe. “I have a syllabary in here somewhere. I made it when I first realized Parsel was a language, before I knew what it was called.” He started flinging robes, books, and piles of parchment onto the bed. “When I found out magic was real, I took it to school thinking that I would look for other books on it. Nothing. There’s not a single book on Parsel in the library, unless they’re hidden in the restricted section or something, and I can’t think why they would be. It’s not as though anyone else would care about them. They must be in the Chamber, I think. Aha! Here,” he handed a still-beaming Hermione a small, hand lettered pamphlet of muggle paper, “Read this, and then we’ll practice!”


	14. Part 1: Diagon Alley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter makes me feel like I’m writing a Dumas story – not the swashbuckling adventure bits, but the “we ran out of money, and then acquired more money, and then spent it all thusly” bits. Even more than the end of Letters and Plots. : /

26 August 1940

Saturday and Sunday passed in a haze of hissing sounds and giggling, Tom laughing at Hermione’s frankly terrible pronunciation, and Hermione because a genuinely amused Tom was such a rarity. The only dark spot was when one of Hermione’s roommates, a younger girl called Mary, tried to spy on them to figure out what they had been doing, shut up all the time in Tom’s room.

Tom had been irritated because she had interrupted their lesson, and Hermione had been irritated because her roommates apparently did not trust her to spend time alone with a boy. She didn’t really consider that they might be worried about her spending time with _that_ boy specifically. Between the glares from the two of them, they managed to instill a sense of foreboding in the girl that lasted through the end of the week.

The other children whispered to each other in their rooms at night. Tom had not punished any of them since July, an unprecedented reprieve which, they were certain, they owed to the brown-haired girl, Granger. Tom and the girl had been out of the house together almost every day for the past month, and then over the weekend, had been locked up in his room. It had never been easier to avoid him. This had been the quietest summer in years, even with the constant threat of bombing. And then Mary had gone and actively drawn their attention, and had escaped with no more than catching the evil-eye, which was, as far as anyone could remember, the least painful interaction any of them had ever had with Tom. But Mary had also made it clear that Riddle wasn’t the only one who had been giving her the evil-eye. The new girl, Granger… she was like _him_. Which explained rather a lot, they thought. And so they began to avoid her nearly as studiously as they avoided Tom.

Hermione did not notice. She was busy trying to learn Tom’s notation system for the sounds that were differentiated in Parsel, but not English. There were nearly sixty symbols, all told, and half of them seemed to be meaningless squiggles. Two or three she could not hear the difference at all, which was frustrating to both herself and Tom. At least ten were combining marks, modifiers for the other forty or so. Every so often, she would ask Tom what something was, only to be told that clearly whatever was written was a mistake. He would black out the offending character and replace it with a different one. Once it had just been a stray pencil-mark. This, she thought, was what happened when textbooks were written by ten-year-olds. She made a note to look for a linguistics book to gift him with at the earliest opportunity.

Tom did notice, and thought it was rather amusing that the children were so concerned, since he thought it should be obvious that the children should just not _bother_ him. He was quite certain that he would not be bored enough to go hunting them again this summer, and he was even _more_ certain that Hermione, no matter how little she seemed to care about his “sociopathic tendencies,” (he loved not being the only person around who occasionally sounded like a textbook) was even less likely to do anything to hurt them. So it was funny that they would avoid her with the same caution they did him, even when she had done nothing. It was nice to know that his reputation was intact and active on their behalf, he supposed. But as long as he was occupied by something else, he probably wouldn’t go out of his way to hurt them, unless they stopped respecting his privacy. Spending time with Hermione, whether taking advantage of the banking system, or teaching Parsel, or trying to wheedle hints about the future, or talking about time travel, or magical theory was so much more interesting than _anything_ the idiot children had to offer. It was almost as good as being at Hogwarts (in fact, it might have been better than Hogwarts, if they had been on Diagon Alley or something instead of in the Muggle world – it wasn’t really as though he had anyone to talk to at school, either).

Monday morning after breakfast, Hermione barged into Tom’s room, blatantly disregarding the spirit of his “At least _knock_ first” rule by knocking as she opened the door, nearly bouncing with excitement. She really wanted to get a new wand. And proper robes. And books, of course. Always books. Tom had stayed up late, and slept through breakfast. He emphatically dropped his pillow over his eyes and mumbled, “Ten more minutes, Granger.”

“No, get up, Riddle! It’s eight-thirty. We’re going to Diagon Alley today, remember?” She poked him in the ribs and he flinched. He wasn’t exactly ticklish, but he didn’t like people touching him. Hermione, therefore, made a point of doing so as often as possible. “Come ooooon, get up. _SssiAh!_ ”

He threw the pillow at her and followed it with a glare. “I hate morning people.” She could tell he was pleased, though. She was doing very well after only two days of studying Parsel. _SssiAh_ meant ‘hurry’. He grabbed his towel and stomped down the hall toward the bathroom. Hermione grinned and retreated to her room with the Parsel pamphlet.

They had worked out a plan yesterday, since she had much more shopping to do than he did. They were in all the same classes, so they had agreed to share books: the basics, plus Arithmancy, Runes, Astronomy and Divination, which Hermione thought was stupid, but Tom insisted was the foundation of mind magic, and necessary if you wanted to learn Occlumency, the mental defense magic, which she did.

Higher-level Astronomy and Divination would, Hermione suspected, tie in to time magic, too, especially navigation. After all, stars could be used as a constant reference, if you knew your charts well enough, and since she hadn’t disappeared, it seemed like they were working on a multiverse scheme – Divination might be the only way to distinguish between _possible_ futures and figure out which one you meant to follow.

Tom would accompany Hermione to the bank, the bookstore (where they had agreed to go halvsies on the booklist, and anything else that they _both_ picked up a copy of), and the apothecary, but then he was planning to find out where Knockturn Alley had moved, and poke around in the little shops there while she visited Ollivander’s, and bought her trunk, robes, telescope, and other bits and pieces. She was to send him a short-distance owl when she was done, and he would come meet her at the owlry to portkey back to London.

She hadn’t told Tom yet, but she was also planning to exchange some of her galleons for pounds and find a used clothes shop in muggle London for the basics, as all the clothes she’d worn since she’d arrived in 1940 belonged to the orphanage. Her own had been left behind when she was “dislocated,” as they had taken to calling it.

Tom wandered into her room about half an hour later wearing his school robes and cloak, as he did not want to look like a muggle in the Alley. “ _There_ you are. Come on, stop wasting time. Let’s _go_.” She stuck her tongue out at him and handed him the pamphlet to put in his pocket. It was best, they had decided, if she didn’t leave it in her room, where her roommates might find it.

“Got the portkey?” He held up a necklace with a large brass pendant.

“We both need to touch the pendant and say _Diagon Alley_. After three?” She nodded and took hold of one side of the pendant. “One, two, three.”

“Diagon Alley,” they said together.

There was a hooking sensation at their centers, and the orphanage disappeared, to be replaced by a bustling courtyard. Both stumbled, but neither fell, which they each felt was an accomplishment, of sorts.

“New arrivals, clear the landing stage! New arrivals, please move to your right! Over here, children!”

They moved somewhat drunkenly toward the voice, shaking off the effects of the portkey.

“Alright?”

“Yeah, you?”

“That was almost as bad as the Floo.”

“I hate wizard-travel.”

“Ugh. Bank first?”

“Yeah, and then Finneks’ Robe Shoppe, I think. I know it wasn’t the plan, but you look like a muggle, Granger. I don’t want to be seen in the bookstore with you.”

“Shut up, Riddle. Put your hood up until we get there if you don’t want your friends to recognize you.”

“Maybe I will.” He stuck his tongue out and flipped up his hood, despite the warm weather.

“Brat.”

“Muggle.”

She pushed his head to the side and they laughed, making their way through the crowds to the small Gringotts branch that supported the Alley.

Tom pulled twenty galleons from his vault. Hermione pulled fifty, and ten pounds in coin.

The goblins at the door nodded to them as they passed, and recognized them by name as they left.

‘’That was… odd, right?”

“Yeah. They don’t normally learn humans’ names. We must have impressed them with the exchange game.”

“I wonder if that’s a good thing.”

Tom shrugged.

“Hey, Tom. New plan: I need a coinpurse, like ten minutes ago.”

He sniggered, looking at the bulging pockets of her skirt. “It’s true. You’re just asking to be robbed.”

“Come on, there’s a mokeshop,” she pointed, and dragged him across the street by the point of his hood.

“Let go of me, woman!” He swatted blindly at her arm.

Two galleons gained Hermione a standard coin-purse, with Featherlight and Anti-theft charms, and an interior dimension of one gallon, or approximately 500 galleons. She emptied her pockets into it, and they continued on their way to the Robe Shoppe.

Another six galleons found her summer and winter-weight uniform robes (three each), a cloak, and a hat, which were the only actual dress-code requirements. Two more galleons bought her a pair of proper self-sizing boots. Hermione spent a good deal of her time in the shop thinking hard, but eventually gave up trying to figure out how the Wizarding economy must interact with the muggle economy – these prices were quite similar to those she had seen in the summer of 1993, which didn’t seem right, somehow. Surely the price of raw materials at least should fluctuate with the muggle market? And yet it appeared they did not. The past was a strange place, indeed, and the Wizarding world even moreso.

Tom stared absently out the window overlooking the street while she was fitted and her robes tailored, seeing how many passers-by he could “poke” with his magic. He was up to twenty-eighth person looking around, confused, as she walked past, when Hermione flicked him in the ear and told him she was ready to go. She donned one of the summer-weight robes over her muggle dress, and Tom finally removed his cloak, sweaty and resentful, but not quite ready to admit that he was wrong to want to hide for the sake of his reputation at the expense of his comfort. The remainder of Hermione’s wardrobe was packed into a bag and shrunk to a manageable size. It would return to normal at six pm, which seemed the best way to handle the restriction on underaged magic.

They spent by far the longest time at the bookstore, finding their required texts in a matter of minutes, and then spending over an hour looking through the stacks for books on languages, history, time, and mind magics. Hermione was gratified to see that they had found two copies of nearly all of the non-required books, and so could split those costs as well. She ended up with a slightly higher tab, as she found a linguistics book for Tom’s birthday or Christmas, whichever came first, and grabbed an advanced arithmantic theory book, and the Complete Transfiguration Basics Reference. Tom had held off on books outside of their shared interests, but promised he would let her have a look at any he found in Knockturn Alley, if he could use the Reference. Another shrunken bag found the pair headed off again.

At the Apothecary, Hermione was dismayed to realize that the Imperial Apothecary’s Units she was accustomed to using would, in fact, not be adopted until the late 1950s. They requested their standard Grade 4 Potions Kits, and Hermione picked up a new pewter cauldron and the basic knives and stirring rods as well. A few minutes later, yet another small bag found its place on her arm, as she bid farewell to Tom and wandered away looking for a trunk vendor.

The standard trunk, as it had been in 1991, was only about six galleons, but adding shrinking, hovering, and following enchantments raised the price to eight, and locking wards bumped it up to ten. She wavered for moment as she calculated the money she had already spent, and then shrugged. The charms would be worth it, but she could add locking wards herself once she was back at school. She placed her purchases inside the trunk and reduced it to its smallest size, a box the size of a loaf of bread. She then set it to follow her at head height, just behind her right shoulder, so that no one would trip over it, and allowed it to follow her to Ollivander’s.

The old wandmaker, still old, though considerably younger than she remembered, was surprised to see a witch of her age without a wand. She told him it had been broken in the accident that killed her father, and he asked her its dimensions. It had been vine and dragon heart-string, and as long as the distance from the inside of her elbow to the tip of her pointer finger when she bought it: almost 11 inches. He muttered for a moment about vine, seeming to think it unsuited for her now, and instead gave her light but rigid woods, with dragon heart-strings. He eventually matched her with a hemlock and dragon wand, thirteen inches, flexible but snappy. Things went smoothly until he cast some sort of age assessment charm on her, to set the Trace on the wand.

“Nearly seventeen, I see,” he said, making small talk as he had throughout her visit. She nearly fell off her stool. That couldn’t be right. She was nearly _fifteen_ … or maybe sixteen and a bit, if you counted all the days she had spent with the Time Turner. That must have been it. “March birthday? And you said your first wand was vine? Very curious indeed. Vine is more of an autumn wood, you know.”

“Erm… it was an heirloom wand?” Hermione tried desperately to cover her surprise.

 The wandmaker stared at her disconcertingly with those mirror-bright eyes, but apparently decided to let it go. “Well, perhaps you will find this suits you better, then.” And he handed the wand over with some ceremony.

Just before she left, he made a comment that it was unusual for hemlock to choose such a young witch. Generally, he said, it was a more jaded wood. _If only you knew_ , thought Hermione. _Apparently I’m going to be seventeen now in March. I wonder what day?_ And then somewhat irrelevantly, _No wonder the Unspeakables wanted me to come in for that “little chat” about Time Turner abuse._ But she said nothing as she continued her errands.

The joy had definitely gone out of shopping with Ollivander’s pronouncement. She grabbed a wand-sheath and a sturdy book bag at a leather goods store, then made her way to the Stationarium for quills, a few scrolls of fresh parchment, half a dozen thick notebooks, and a dayplanner; picked up a new telescope; dropped by a little shop called This, That, and The Other for underclothes and stockings; and debated a cat before reluctantly deciding that she really wasn’t likely to have the time or patience to deal with a pet this year. Around mid-afternoon, coin-purse considerably lighter, even considering its featherweight charm, she made her way back to the owlry by the portkey landing pad and used a spare knut to send an owl to Tom and let him know she was ready to go.

She settled down on a bench by the owlry to read her new Potions text, and only looked up when she noticed Tom lurking and reading over her shoulder.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re kind of creepy, Tom?”

“Yes, but not since last Tuesday, when I told you about that dream with the –”

“I remember.” She shuddered, and he laughed, his black hair mussed from wearing his hood earlier, and blue eyes alight (The thought, _he looks like Harry, save the eyes,_ flashed across her mind, and she ignored it) in the way that she had come to associate with conning the banking system out of large sums of money and their occasional discussions of very dark magic ( _Yes, that’s my life now._). She could only surmise that he had found interesting things in Knockturn Alley. “Ready to go?”

“Sure, I’d just finished at my last stop when I got your owl. Here,” he pulled the portkey necklace from his robe pocket and she touched a finger to it, somewhat reluctantly, her other hand on her trunk handle. “It’s ‘Wool’s’ after three. One, two, three.”

“Wool’s,” they said, together, and promptly collapsed onto Tom’s bed, waiting for the world to stop spinning around them.

“Urgh. I was all excited to show you what I’d found, but that just takes the Mickey right out of me, you know?”

“Yeah. I need to go find a secondhand shop and get some muggle clothes for the weekends, and whenever I’m not at school. But I’m just so tired. And now I feel like shit.” Hermione tried to sit up, and then flopped back onto the mattress. “Maybe tomorrow.”

“Don’t fall asleep here,” said Tom, “There’s a reason I don’t have a roommate.”

“You’re allergic to prolonged exposure to normal people?” Hermione suggested sarcastically.

“No,” he said, propping himself up on one elbow to see her face, “I can’t resist taking advantage of helpless victims.”

She didn’t even blink, but that might have been because her eyes were already closed. “Two in one day, Tom. That was super creepy. Real people don’t _say_ things like that. And also I’m not a helpless victim, even if I were asleep.” She batted halfheartedly at his shoulder, and he dodged, equally slowly.

“What makes you think I want to be real people? You still need to take your stuff to your room, or your bags will un-shrink inside your trunk and things will get ruined.”

Hermione sighed and hauled herself upright. “ _That_ is actually a good point. And then I am going to take a nap. I’ll see you at dinner, maybe. Actually, if you’re up and I’m not at dinner, come wake me, or send one of the littles. I really shouldn’t get in the habit of napping,” she mumbled, towing her still-floating trunk out of the room.


	15. Part 1: Machiavelli and Blood Bonding

29 August 1940

Nothing noteworthy occurred until Thursday.

Hermione did go shopping, finding to her intense satisfaction that a pound went much further in 1940 than in 1994, even if a galleon did not. She and Tom took turns reading through their new textbooks, including the Legilimency and Occlumency primers and a book on possession that Tom had found in Knockturn Alley, and continued working on her Parsel vocabulary.

By the time they were ready to go to King’s Cross, Hermione could distinguish 90% of the sounds in Tom’s syllabary, pronounce 80% of those, and say _stop, close, go, come, move, up, down,_ and _calm,_ in addition to _open_ and _hurry._ Tom was quite pleased, and thought she was making excellent progress for not having any inherent aptitude for the language, especially after he realized that one of the four characters she could not distinguish was not actually 'verbal' for real snakes, but scent-based. They decided to wait and see what other commands were necessary to approach the chamber and the basilisk before they continued with more words, and maybe see if the Hogwarts library had anything like an animal transfiguration which could allow her to sense and express the non-verbal cues. Tom was actually all for trying to reverse-engineer the Parsel curse itself, but Hermione wasn’t sure exactly what all of its individual or collective effects were, and thought they might have better luck just looking for the instructions in the hypothetical Slytherin library.

Tom and Hermione spent most of the Thursday before they left debating the necessity of reminding the orphans not to mess with Tom once more before the end of the holiday. Tom thought it might be a good idea to torture one so they didn’t get the idea that he had gone soft over the break, and would tolerate them poking around in his room while he was at school. Hermione argued that obviously it wasn’t necessary, as his reputation had managed to spread to her without her having done anything. If _that_ was possible, there was no reason to go out of his way to torture them. When he continued to argue for it, with weaker and weaker arguments, she accused him of just wanting to hurt someone.

“So what if I do?” _Ha, finally_ , thought Hermione.

They were lying on Tom’s bed, feet on the floor of opposite sides, both staring at the ceiling.

“Well,” said Hermione, slowly, trying to frame the point she wanted to make in a way that Tom would understand, “It’s kind of like a weakness, isn’t it?”

“What is?” He turned to look at her, but she was staring intently at the ceiling, focused inward.

“Giving in to your own _wants_ and doing things that are not necessary and potentially harmful just because you _like_ to. I think that’s a weakness.”

“Of course it’s harmful. That’s the point.”

“Not to them. To your reputation. To your cause. Have you read Machiavelli?”

“It is better to be feared than loved? That was _my_ point.”

“No, you really should read the whole thing, or read it again. It’s a satire, you know. He wasn’t seriously recommending tyranny. And the reason fear was preferable to love was because one could control the degree to which one’s subjects _feared_ one, but not the degree to which they _loved_ one, which I don’t think is true. It’s more _work_ to get adoration, but it’s possible, and arguably more effective. That’s not the point, anyway.

“The important part is about leaders who are _hated_ and _respected_. Even the most fearful leader, if he is _hated_ will be overthrown, as the hatred will overwhelm the fear, eventually. If a leader is _respected_ and either feared or loved, the loyalty of his subjects will be absolute. I don’t know if there’s a most effective way to earn a person’s respect, but the easiest way to lose it is to act irrationally and irregularly or unpredictably toward them.

“So swift and severe retribution for a transgression, without fail, that leads to fear and respect, but attacking your subjects without provocation would lead only to fear and hatred, which is not nearly as effective.”

Tom was quiet for a long moment before asking softly, “But what is the point of having power if one cannot use it as one pleases?”

Hermione smiled broadly at him, pleased that he had finally admitted that he _liked_ hurting people. She saw this as _progress_. “There are people who enjoy being hurt, and would volunteer, you know. It’s a better-kept secret now than in my past-future, but I’m certain they’re around. Masochists, they’re called. People who like to cause others pain are called sadists, after a Marquis de Sade. He wrote a couple of books... You might not be welcome at a club as a thirteen year old, but pay attention to the Slytherin students when we get back to the Castle. I’m sure you’ll spot at least a few.”

“How would you tell?”

“They’ll be the ones staring after you like a lovesick puppy.”

He grinned and hit her with the pillow.

“Oof. What was that for?”

“You know me too well.”

“I’ve come to think of you as the little brother I never had. I would be remiss in my sisterly duties if I didn’t tell you there are people who will play your games and _not_ hate you for it.”

…

Tom was very quiet for the rest of that day and part of the next. Hermione wondered if she had done something wrong, or whether he was just rethinking the relative benefits of recreational torture.

On Friday after lunch, he said, “You think of me like a brother?”

“Yes, I think so.” It was true. She was sometimes painfully reminded of Harry, who had been the last person she had felt that way toward. They were both so lost, and neither one of them could admit it. “Is that what you’ve been so quiet about since yesterday?”

It was.

Tom had never had a family. It wasn’t something he thought of very often. He thought his father was still alive, somewhere, and knew that his name was also Tom Riddle. Third-year divination students learned how to scry the past, and he had learned the year before that his mother had drugged his father with love potions to keep him hostage. Tom could understand rejecting Merope after that. He would have. But Riddle had known she was pregnant. Tom thought it was wretchedly unfair of his father to have left _Tom_ behind. And then Merope died when he was born, and he was brought here, to Wool’s. He grew up with the other orphans, but they hated him, and he controlled them. Wool’s was a battleground, not a home.

Tom, if he was honest, was not entirely sure what it meant, to think of someone like a brother. He imagined in a sort of abstract way that being family meant mutual loyalty, and protection, and affection. Love, maybe, though he wasn’t sure he would recognize love if he ever saw it. For Hermione to think of him as a brother… was she actually… _fond_ of him? That was insane. Impossible. No one _liked_ Tom. But more than all that, he had learned from the other Slytherins, _family_ meant _belonging_. Having a place in the world, and other people who would help you defend that place. Perhaps that was what Hermione had meant. To claim a sibling… was to say that you belonged to each other, in a way that neither of them belonged to anyone else, anymore.

Most of a day later, Tom decided that this was a _good_ thing. Though he would never admit it aloud, he _wanted_ a place to belong. Family meant you weren’t alone, and as much as Tom liked to think of himself as self-reliant, having an ally, even one who could not be entirely trusted (because no one could be entirely trusted), would be… a relief, of sorts. It would certainly make his actions more efficient, to have assistance in carrying them out. And he knew just how to make it official. So on Friday, after lunch, he had brought the subject up again.

He nodded, looking strangely vulnerable for the first time since Hermione had met him (he was quite proud of this face. He had practiced it for half an hour the day previously, trying to get it right). “I’ve… never had any family. I… didn’t know what to make of it.”

“Oh. I didn’t think –”

“No, it’s fine. I decided it’s a good thing. Family is supposed to look out for each other, right?” Hermione nodded, watching him closely. “Would you… would you like to be my blood-sister? There’s this thing, that the younger boys do, sometimes, they call it blood-brothers…”

Hermione grinned. “I know. It was still done in my past-future. Of course I’ll be your blood-sister, Tom. Got a knife?” He pulled a potions knife from the drawer in his bedside table. “Silly question, I suppose. Here. You cut my hand, and I’ll cut yours.”

She held out her left hand, and he cut surprisingly delicately across the meaty part of her palm, then handed her the knife and held out his own hand. She made a matching wound, and they clasped hands, aligning the cuts.

Hermione felt that something needed to be said. She spoke solemnly, “By my blood and yours, I claim you, Tom Marvolo Riddle, as my blood-brother, whatever this may mean to us, until death and beyond.”

Tom smiled fiercely. _This_ he understood – claiming ownership and declaring his rights to a person. He _liked_ laying claim to what was his. And it was almost comforting to be claimed by someone else as well, loathe though he would be to admit it. “By my blood and yours, I claim you, Hermione Jean Granger, as my blood-sister, whatever this may mean to us, until death and beyond.”

Their magic rose around them as gold and green light, swirled around their clasped hands, and then collapsed, sinking into their skin. The sensation of power vanished after a moment, and they pulled away, Hermione looking closely at the twisted scar that crossed the back of her left hand and the healed cut on her palm, Tom more concerned with the blood that had run down his arm. She poked at the double helix design left by their entwined magic with her power, and Tom twitched.

“What?”

Hermione looked up, confused. “I– Are you licking blood off your arm?”

“Yes. What of it?”

She rolled her eyes at him “New record: four whole days without doing something creepy.”

He shrugged and licked his arm again. “Deal with it, sis.”

She grinned at the epithet and went to wash her own arm in the bathroom. As she walked out, she heard Tom mutter, “And the record is _eight_ days, thank you very much!” She hadn’t realized he’d been keeping track. Was it possible he actually did care about the way others perceived him, but was just a _terrible_ judge of what was acceptable behavior? She had rather thought he just didn’t give a fuck.

Arm clean, she returned to her exploration of the magical mark. She poked it again and thought of Tom, sitting cross-legged on his bed, exactly where she had left him, now examining his own mark.

She returned to the bedroom.

“Were you just in the bathroom, staring at your hand in front of the mirror?”

“Yes. Were you sitting here, looking at yours?”

“Yes.” He paused for a second. “Hermione, what did we just do?”

“Um, apparently some sort of ad-hoc blood-based binding ritual? I suppose I should have expected that.”

“Oops.” Another pause, as they both considered the ramifications of their actions. Then Tom continued, “Well, I’m glad we worded the binding so loosely then. I wonder what else this thing does?” He sent a tiny bit of power into his own mark, and Hermione felt a warm line across the back of her hand.

She shivered. “That feels weird. Like something warm, laid just across the mark.” Suddenly, she let out a yip. “What was that for? It felt like my skin was going to melt off!”

Tom looked utterly unrepentant. “I was curious… Guess I should have taken that copy of The Arte of the Succubus after all.”

Tom had turned down a book on blood rituals on his visit to Knockturn Alley. When he had told Hermione, she had said that it was just as well, since blood magic was too dark to be messing around with on a whim, and the Arte of the Succubus was more than just theoretical. The Hogwarts library wouldn’t have anything on it, unless it was in the Restricted section.

“Urgh, fine, you told me so. Shut up,” Hermione grumped.

Tom laughed.

The remainder of Friday was filled with strange sensations on the back of Hermione’s left hand, and visions of Tom sitting in various spots around the orphanage and the nearby streets at all hours of the day and early evening. She spent the same hours carefully packing her trunk. Tom yelped when she reminded him that he still needed to pack, astonished that he could have forgotten something so fundamentally important as their return to Hogwarts.

By the time they boarded the Express, Tom could tell Hermione that the range of the connection was at least two miles; that he could send physical sensations to her, like pain or warmth or cold; and that if they were not within a direct line of sight, they would see each other whenever one of them pushed power into the mark. It was, he concluded, exceptionally bad for spying, as the other person was always aware when the connection was active, but might be useful for cheating on exams (as though either of them needed the help). He suspected that the sense of location that accompanied the visions might be sufficient to apparate to one another, if either of them could apparate.

Hermione suggested that the actual purpose of the binding was to allow them to protect and support each other, sending messages if they were in trouble and giving them the ability to find each other at need. Tom secretly agreed that this was likely, but countered that maybe it was intended to allow them to bother each other at any time, just to be contrary. And then to prove his point, poked his mark with his magic to make a sensation like an electric shock on the back of Hermione’s hand. She jumped and he grinned.

Fourth year was looking like more fun than ever, thought Tom. All they needed now was to get Hermione sorted to Slytherin, explore the Chamber of Secrets, figure out the mysteries of time and space, maybe kill Grindelwald and end the War five years early, take over the world, or at least Britain, and everything would be perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Arte of the Succubus is a primer on blood magic that is mentioned in Silently Watches' Black Queen series, hosted on fanfiction[dot]net (which is fantastic, and I highly recommend it).


	16. Part 1: Snakes on a Train

31 August 1940

Tom and Hermione used their tickets to port’ to Platform 9 ¾ at half nine on Saturday, the 31st of August. Much like the Platform of the 1990s, it was full of bustling movement, almost as much so as Diagon Alley. The major difference, as far as Hermione could tell, was that the train itself was not a vibrant red, but a more sedate grey. She mentioned as much to Tom, who thought that Dumbledore, with his well-known penchant for ridiculous, brightly colored robes, was probably to blame for the tasteless-sounding red carriages of the future.

Like the carriages Hermione was familiar with, these had four compartments each, with six seats to a compartment. Tom led her to the middle of the train, which was, he said, where the Slytherin underclassmen usually sat, and they poked their heads into the compartments until they found one with three boys and a girl already seated. One of the boys could only have been a Malfoy, and the girl looked vaguely familiar as well.

Tom greeted them cordially, and introduced her as “Hermione Granger, from America. She’s a fourth-year transfer, and she’s going to be in our House, I guarantee it.” Their cover story was that Slughorn had asked Tom to be her guide to Magical London, as he was the only Slytherin in Town except a couple of second-years. The boys were Scorpius Malfoy, Edmond Lestrange, and Leo Black, Tom’s yearmates. They accepted the cover story without question. Leo introduced the girl as his baby cousin, Bella, who would be joining them as a first-year. She kicked him for calling her Bella, and told them it was Bellatrix or nothing. This was promptly ignored.

The boys spent the first hour of the trip telling the girls all about the four Houses, as though Hermione hadn’t just spent the past month and a half with Tom, and Bella hadn’t spent her entire life growing up in a pureblood family. The Blacks, apparently, were a Legacy family, almost all of them sorting into Slytherin. The Malfoys had just come over from France a few generations ago, and didn’t have a solid House-association yet. Lestranges were everywhere, apparently, but Edmond didn’t let it phase him.

Hermione was much more interested in hearing about the Houses of her companions’ families, as, being from America, she was understandably not familiar with them. Tom was excused (and retreated into the Transfiguration Reference, content to not have to participate), since she already knew plenty about him. Scorpius started, explaining that his house was Common, which meant they didn’t have a seat on the Wizengamot, but that his older brother, Abraxas, was planning on changing that, come hell or high water. He talked a bit about his family history, and the importance of blood status in France and England. Lestrange was a Noble House. Edmond spent nearly an hour talking about the differences between muggle and wizarding nobility, as he said he had been forced to learn all of this over the summer. His mother was a tyrant, apparently. Every so often Hermione would make a comment about how little blood status mattered in the States, and that there was no such thing as Nobility across the pond, making it up as she went along. Tom smirked at these remarks as he practiced different wand movements.

And then it was the turn of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Bella had been reading a novel and ignoring the older students, but Leo insisted that she do her duty as a member of the House. He prompted her to explain the significance of their title, motto, family crest, and history, then forms of address, proper protocol on meeting a member of another noble house, or a common one, or a member of your own house with higher or lower standing than yourself in the line of succession, then the family tree for the past eight generations… It went on for nearly two hours – an extraordinarily detailed verbal examination of, as far as Hermione could tell, all the things a Pureblood Heir was supposed to know about her family. She and Tom gaped at the girl. Scorpius and Edmond were deeply impressed by the history of the House, declaring Bella to be a suitably well-educated heir, and Leo looked smug. Bella looked like she wanted to kill Leo in his sleep.

The snack trolley came by halfway through the trip, and the pureblood boys turned to a discussion of Quidditch over lunch.

Hermione and Bella walked up and down the train for a while after lunch, introducing themselves to other new students and the sixth-year prefects, who were patrolling the corridors.

By the time they returned to their compartment, Scorpius and Leo were playing chess, and Edmond had stolen Bella’s abandoned novel. Hermione offered to teach the younger girl some of the first-year transfigurations in exchange for any jinxes Bella’s older cousins had taught her. Bella had successfully changed a splinter from an old pencil into a rather large needle using the Basics and Hermione had mastered the Dog Tongue and Tooth Sharpening Jinxes before they reached Hogsmeade.

Bella had demonstrated the jinx combination on Hermione, before explaining that her cousins recommended those particular jinxes because they made it very hard for someone to speak the counterjinx, or curse you back. Leo had nodded in confirmation, maintaining a straight face despite her awkward attempts to articulate a multipurpose _finite_ without shredding twice her usual amount of tongue on her now very sharp incisors.

Hermione eventually gave up and cast the cancellation non-verbally. She practiced firing the jinxes at the floor a couple times, then tried them on Tom, who had been the only one to laugh at her predicament. Scorpius had been preoccupied with failing to save his chess match, and Edmond had fallen asleep. Bella had smiled, but had gone back to her Transfiguration before she had actually laughed.

Tom glared at her, but it only took him two tries to cancel the jinxes with a soft hiss.

“You didn’t tell me you can cast spells in Parsel!” accused Hermione.

Tom shrugged. “ _You_ can’t. Well, I don’t think. It would probably be like trying to cast a non-verbal and speak Parsel at the same time. I mean, it helps me focus, but… We could try it, I guess. It’s not like it mattered in London, anyway.”

“Wait, what?” That was Leo. He and Scorpius had very suddenly started paying attention. They had been aware of their roommate’s ability to speak to snakes, but neither of them had known about its potential as a spell-language, and unless Leo was mistaken, he thought he had just heard the incredibly antisocial boy imply that he had been experimenting with teaching the language to this American girl.

Leo’s follow up question was drowned out by his little cousin shouting in utter astonishment: “ _YOU SPEAK PARSELTONGUE?!”_

Edmond startled awake.

“See,” said Tom, turning to Hermione and pointing at the little girl, “ _That_ is the expected reaction when someone tells you, by the way, I can talk to snakes. It is not for you to just _accept_ it and then ask if anyone can learn.”

“Can they?” asked Leo.

“No,” responded Hermione with a sigh, accepting Tom’s revision of their conversation. Apparently his yearmates were not to know about the Chamber of Secrets, then. “It’s an inherited curse, apparently. I can just about mimic a couple of words, but he says my pronunciation is terrible, and I don’t think I could ever interpret anything from an actual snake. Seriously,” she asked, looking at the other three boys. “None of you thought to ask before now?” They shrugged and muttered about magical languages and Slytherin, then everyone went back to their respective occupations, Bella shooting Tom the occasional fascinated glance between transfiguration attempts.

The train arrived at Hogsmeade Station just before 6pm. The students disembarked to hear a voice like a drill sergeant summoning the first years to their boats. Leo tried to send Bellatrix with them, but she flatly refused, saying that Cassie had warned her about the boats, and there was no way in hell she was going out on the lake. She followed the older students to the thestral-drawn carriages instead, and waited in the entrance hall with Hermione for the other new students to arrive.

The girls compared notes while they waited.

Bella thought that Tom was cold and standoff-ish, and said he gave off an air that said he couldn’t be trusted. Hermione told Bella that she referred to that as the creep-vibe. The younger girl was terribly impressed with his ability to speak Parseltongue, and asked if Hermione had really managed to learn any of it. She said no, not really, as there were few words that one could make without magic or a snake-like vocal tract.

Their impression of Edmond was similar – somewhat boring and a little too tightly wound.

Scorpius, Bella thought, was rather laid back, but Hermione said she thought that was just an act he was putting on for Leo and Edmond. Bella asked why only those two, and Hermione explained that she had no social standing as a foreigner, Bella was too young to matter to a fourteen-year-old boy, even if she was the Black Heiress, and Scorpius was an utter idiot if he thought Tom was paying enough attention to their little power plays to care at all. Bella raised an eyebrow at this, and Hermione added that Tom didn’t really care much for people in general. Calling him cold and standoff-ish was probably the understatement of the year.

Hermione was surprised to find that Bella didn’t know her (distant) cousin Leo that well, and had been quite legitimately angry with him for making her recite all the information about her family. She was the heir presumptive to the House, and by all rights he shouldn’t have been giving her orders at all, but she was herself under orders from her mother to let him look after her, as she currently had no closer (male) relatives at Hogwarts. Bella pointed out, rather drily, that the Blacks were related to just about _everyone_ in the pureblood world one way or another, so she did actually have closer cousins in every house, both male and female, but they didn’t bear the Black name, so they didn’t count. Next year she would have to do the same for Leo’s little sister Bellatrix Dorea (“My mum says her mum used Bellatrix, too, because she hates our naming convention, and this way Dory has to go by Dory, because I’m the _senior_ Bellatrix.”), for the same reason. Hermione only said that she thought Leo was the more level-headed of the two chess-players, and left it at that.

They refrained from telling what they thought of each other. Hermione thought that Bella was a bit spoilt, and that she would do well to not pick fights over stupid things like her nickname, especially when she was bound to lose. Aside from that, she thought the younger girl was going to be an excellent witch, given her transfiguration skills, and probably a good Slytherin, as well, because she had refrained from saying anything about her obvious interest in Tom, even if she was relatively naïve when it came to spotting the truth behind people’s actions, like Scorpius’ power play. She would learn, though. It had taken the recitation of Bella’s family tree, but she had finally placed the girl as Sirius Black’s cousin (though if she had the timeline right, Sirius wouldn’t be born for at least another twenty-five years). She had seemed familiar because their bone-structure was similar.

Bella was intensely curious about Hermione, and suspected that there was more to her than she had hinted at. She was also quite jealous that the older girl was already friends with the dark and mysterious Tom, who, though Bella did not admit it, she very much wanted to get to know, House status be damned.

In the Great Hall, the boys were discussing their traveling companions as well.

The general consensus on Bella was that she would be a bloody terror in a few years, but could probably be safely ignored as an ankle-biter. Slytherin, for sure, of course.

Opinions on Hermione were a bit more divided. Scorpius thought that she was too much of a goody-two-shoes to join their house, and Leo thought she would be a Ravenclaw for sure, with her non-verbal _finite_. Edmond said that from what little he’d seen, she was certainly reticent enough for Slytherin, and he doubted her story about being American. Her accent was too British, he thought. Tom refused to comment, given that he had already guaranteed that she would be a Slytherin. He also refused to tell them why.

The three purebloods agreed that under the fantastically disorganized mop of curls, which made her look even thinner and tinier than she really was, their potential new year-mate was quite the looker, and debated which of them she fancied. Tom sniggered at this, as he was fairly certain she didn’t fancy any of them, himself included. The others asked, vaguely offended, if they were already together, and if so, why he hadn’t already said something. Tom brushed off their inquiries, explaining that he couldn’t begin to tell them all the reasons that would _never_ happen, and that they were welcome to waste their time on her if they liked, but he didn’t think that any of them were her type. They were still trying to bully him into telling them what her type might _be_ (and he was ignoring them masterfully) when the new students entered the Hall.


	17. Part 1: The Sorting and Getting Sorted

Hermione, as the only transfer student, stood at the back of a long line of first-years, who had been arranged alphabetically by the Deputy Headmaster, a disturbingly young-looking Dumbledore.

She waited patiently as the Hat described the virtues of the four houses, at length, but thankfully not in song; as Bella Black was joined by Hector Bulstrode, Abigail Greengrass, Johnathan Masters, Lucan Parkinson, Kendrick Pierce, Leon Quince, and Mary Williams in Slytherin; as the Deputy Headmaster eyed her suspiciously from his place beside the Sorting Hat’s stool and explained the presence of the over-aged new student in their midst, until he finally called her name.

Recalling her over-eager first attempt at this, only three years before, though it seemed _so_ much longer, she did not rush. She walked forward with poise, and sat gracefully on the stool, allowing the Hat to drop lightly onto her curls.

The world went black, as it had once before, and the voice of the Hat was loud in her ears, sifting through her memories.

_What’s this? A time traveler in our midst? Well… Well, well, well._

_Ah! And here I see last time you were well suited for any of the four houses – brave, driven, loyal, and with an intelligence I have rarely seen rivaled._

_Hmmm…_

_Despite your current “change in priorities” as you put it, you really haven’t changed that much, you know. You’ve outgrown some bad habits, don’t trust authorities like you used to (Dumbledore would be so disappointed), and you’re more than a little traumatized at the moment, but you’re no less brave or driven or loyal or clever than you ever were._

_Well, my dear, you know how this goes, yes? I put you in Gryffindor before because that’s where you would do the most good. I don’t lie about these things, child. This time, for the same reason, I think it ought to be_ SLYTHERIN _._

The last word, of course, was shouted, as always, and Hermione thought, _thank you_ as she took off the Hat and returned it to the stool.

She maintained her calm, unhurried pace as she walked across the Hall, away from the red and gold table which had been hers for three years, to take her seat next to Tom Riddle.

The boys from the train congratulated her while Professor Dumbledore removed the Hat and its Stool from the Hall, and were quickly silenced as Headmaster Dippet began his beginning-of-year speech. It was long and tedious, and Hermione soon understood why Dumbledore found it so amusing to say only “a few words” before the feast, and leave the long speech for after. It was nearly nine by the time food began to appear on the tables.

The last dish vanished at eleven, and the prefects herded the first-years to their common rooms.

Hermione walked with Tom and his year-mates ( _their_ year-mates) to the dungeons. An owl caught her as they were leaving the Entry Hall and she took its note, which directed her to report to the Deputy Headmaster’s Office at 8:30 the following morning. The five students continued down the main stair to the dungeons, discussing the unfairness of such an early meeting on a Sunday, of all days.

Hermione did know where the Slytherin common room was, but thanks to a cat-related polyjuice misadventure on the one occasion she had had reason to try to enter, she had never been inside it. She was, therefore, able to act genuinely surprised as she took in the low, arched, stone ceilings, dark, heavy furnishings and green-and-silver, snake-themed décor. The first years were huddled together in the center of the room (with, she noted, somewhat amused, the exception of Bella Black, who was standing to one side of the group and sneering at her peers), but even that didn’t take away the sense of _closeness_ and history and almost medieval splendor of the place.

“It’s… cozier than I expected.”

Edmond snorted in disgust. “Bloody claustrophobic is what it is.”

“The furniture always reminds me of my Great-Uncle Arcturus’ study. I have bad associations with it, myself,” added Leo.

“Right? It’s not meant to make us feel at _home_ ,” said Edmond, “Or at least not in a good way.”

“I like it,” offered Tom, who did seem more relaxed than Hermione had ever seen him.

“Case in point,” retorted Scorpius, “Only weirdos are actually _comfortable_ down here.”

Tom gave Scorpius a look of doom and opened his mouth to respond, but was shocked into silence along with the others when Hermione threw one arm over his shoulders – Tom because he was still prone to freezing at unexpected physical contact, and the others because they had never seen anyone voluntarily touch Tom.

Hermione spoke, feigning obliviousness to their consternation. “Count me among the weirdos, then. I love it. I’ve never been anywhere like it, and I feel like I’ve always been waiting to come here.” Tom turned to join the others in staring at her.

“Oh, we are,” said Edmond.

“Queen of the weirdos,” added Scorpius.

Leo just nodded along with his friends, still half waiting for Tom to hex the impudent girl who had dared to touch him, despite the fact that Tom had more or less relaxed again, and was apparently taking no notice of the arm around his shoulders whatsoever.

“So where are the other fourth-years?”

“There aren’t any,” Tom replied, still held captive near her right ear.

“What?” She turned her head, putting them nose to nose, and finally let him go, as he seemed to have entirely overcome having been touched. He was now acting like two inches was a perfectly appropriate and casual distance from which to talk to someone.

He didn’t step away either, probably trying to make her uncomfortable in turn. “Our class was unusually small – just twenty students. There’s the four of us,”

“Five, counting you,” interjected Scorpius.

“ _Thank_ you, Malfoy. Actually I wasn’t counting you.” Scorpius looked confused. Tom smirked and Hermione laughed. “So there’s the five of us for Slytherin, four Ravens, and six each for Hufflepuff and Gryffindor. There are eight girls in our year, not including you – four in Hufflepuff, two each in Ravenclaw and Gryffindor.”

“Sooooo... what I’m hearing here is I get my own room?”

“Pretty much,” said Edmond, “Though the layout of the dorms is usually a shared bathroom for all the same sex students in a year, and then individual bedrooms, anyway, so the more pertinent fact is you get your own _bathroom_.”

“ _Excellent_.” She stepped back from Tom, finally, and asked, “Who’s going to show me?”

Leo actually volunteered, though they all wandered down the hallway together. The corridor for their rooms branched off the dorm hall opposite the one that should lead to her room. As they walked down the hall, Tom shocked her left hand, and she looked down to see glowing red letters set up as a scoreboard: T - 1; H - 0. He smirked at her and she stuck her tongue out at him. He pointed at his wrist, and she looked down to see that the red letters had changed: Need to talk. 30 min. She shook her head and sent a wave of tiredness at him through the Mark. The letters shifted again. Morning? She nodded.

Hermione parted ways with the boys, and found her way to her bedroom, which was at the end of a short, tunnel-like hallway, across from a small but richly appointed bath. Her trunk had already been delivered to her room, during the feast, she supposed. She found her toiletries and moved them to the bathroom, took a quick shower, and fell into her green-bedecked bed, dead to the world as soon as her head hit the pillow.


	18. Part 1: The Wakeup Call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: blood, non-consensual scarification ahead

Hermione woke up to find herself petrified, in the same position she had fallen asleep – naked atop her green-covered mattress, feet barely on the bed.

“Good morning, sister dear. It’s time to wake up.” There was a whisper of Latin, and she was able to turn her head and open her eyes to see Tom sitting cross-legged next to her, with his wand in one hand and a scalpel in the other.

“What time is it?”

“ _That’s_ your first question?”

“Yes. The fact that you’re here at all suggests that it’s far later than I normally wake up, and I have to meet Dumbledore at 8:30, remember? Unfortunately you’re just too creepy on a regular basis for me to be surprised that I’m naked and petrified and you’re holding a scalpel over me. So what time is it?”

“Just gone seven. Merlin, you’re bitchy when you’re woken up. I had no idea.”

“No, I’m bitchy when I’m naked and petrified and you’re holding a scalpel over me. Question Two: How did you get in here? Wait, let me sit up first. This is the worst position for talking.”

“Fine, fine,” Tom let the petrification go, and Hermione’s back was suddenly on fire.

“Holy _shit_ , Tom! What did you do?”

He giggled, not unlike the first time she tried to speak Parsel – a sound of utter delight. “The look on your _face_! Oh, you thought the scalpel was a threat? …No, it’s done. Come on, I’ll show you.” He jumped off the bed and grabbed her wrist to tow her to the bathroom. On a scale of shocking things Tom had done already today, Hermione thought, voluntarily grabbing her wrist was slightly higher on the scale of surprising than cutting her back to ribbons… or whatever he had done.

In the bathroom, Tom had her stand with her back to the full-length mirror, while he held a smaller mirror so she could see the reflection. It was an intricate pattern of thin scratches, almost black where the blood had dried against her pale skin, lining leaves and thorns, with bright red roses tucked between them. The roses appeared to have been created by completely _removing_ the overlying skin. It covered every inch of her back, from the nape of her neck to the base of her spine. If it had been drawn on parchment, she would have called it beautiful. As it was, it hurt like nothing she had ever experienced.

“What do you think?” Tom grinned.

Hermione didn’t. “You are far, far more insane than I ever realized. And you are going to erase every scratch from my back, right now, or I _will_ think of a suitable punishment for you.”

Tom’s smile faltered. “You don’t like it, then.”

“It’s gorgeous, Tom. And it’s very cleverly executed, and I can’t really be mad at you for breaking into my room when I’ve spent half the summer in yours. But _you didn’t ask_!” She stomped a bare foot on the tiled floor for emphasis, then winced as the movement jarred her back. “And it _hurts._ And I don’t _want_ to be covered in scars when it heals. And it’s going to hurt even more when I put on clothes, which reminds me, hand me my gods-cursed towel!” She pointed, and Tom did so, staring at her in utter confusion as she held it up to cover her front. She would have bet good money he didn’t see the point in the towel.

“So you do like it.”

Hermione rested her face in her hands, elbows holding the towel to her chest. “Yes. It’s lovely.” She looked up, “Aesthetically pleasing to the eye. I like it. I do NOT like being used as a canvas without permission, and I do NOT like that it hurts. Heal it, now.”

“Fine,” Tom huffed. He spun her around by the shoulder. “ _Restitutio integretatis_ ” She watched him wave his wand in an intricate pattern over her abused back in the mirror. “Better?”

She twisted gingerly and found that the pain had gone. “Yes. Thank you.”

“I’m not getting rid of the scars.” Tom looked like he was _pouting_ of all things. “It’s pretty. And you as good as gave me permission when you didn’t even lock the door.”

“What? Hold up the mirror again!” Tom did so, and she saw that the design had been transformed: black lines had become thin white scars; red roses had become shiny and silvery. The rest of her back looked positively tan in comparison, though it hadn’t seen the sun in months. She sighed, “Fine.”

Tom trailed her back into the hall, where she made him wait while she dressed. She joined him in the hallway (locking the door on the way out with a series of hexes and binding spells) and started walking toward breakfast. Tom trailed along in her wake.

“Okay,” Hermione spoke, as they left the common room, “Let’s try this again. Question Two: How did you get into my room? Why didn’t the sex wards keep you out? You’re not gay, are you?”

Tom snorted, “Gay? Is that like a poof?” She nodded. “No. Guess again.”

“Asexual? Recognized by the wards as my brother? Just not interested in screwing _me_ , so they let you pass?”

“No, no and no. Well, yes, I’m _not_ interested in having sex with you, but no, that’s not the reason I could get in. You’re missing the simplest explanation, here.”

“What?”

“Why would you even think that there were wards on the dorm in the first place?”

“What? Because the entire girls’ half of Gryffindor is warded against males coming up. I was under the impression that Hogwarts took the possibility of rape seriously.”

“Well, I can’t speak for the other Houses, but in Slytherin, only first through third-years are behind wards. Any fourteen-year-old Slytherin should be able to protect herself in her own bedroom, and if she failed to do so, I assure you she would be blamed just as much for that as a boy would be for …testing her defenses.”

“Slytherin is a fucked-up house.”

Tom shrugged as they sat down next to Leo, Bellatrix, and a couple of boys who looked like second or third years.

“ _Language_ , Miss Granger,” said Leo, faking offence.

The younger boys laughed.

“Why are we a fucked-up house?” asked the lighter-haired of the two.

“Don’t blame the whole house for whatever Riddle’s done,” added his friend.

“Avery, Nott. Hermione Granger, meet Cadmus Avery and Dominic Nott.” The duties of introductions taken care of, Tom turned to find the nearest plate of sausages.

“Morning, Cadmus, Dominic. Rest assured I am not blaming the entire house for my wake-up call this morning. I’ve just been informed that Slytherin house, unlike the other houses, does not protect girls fourth-year and up with sex-specific wards, and any girl fourth year or up whose room is broken into is as much at fault as the person who broke in.” The others in their little group shrugged.

“Yes, and?” asked Leo.

“Why doesn’t Slytherin take the threat of rape as seriously as the other houses? Why would the girl be blamed as much as the rapist or a thief who broke in?”

“Okay, wait just one second here,” interrupted the light-haired boy, Dominic. “I think you’re missing something. Why are you only talking about girls as potential victims?”

“Yeah,” chimed in Cadmus, “And what’s with the rape obsession? All of us younglings are warded. It’s not a _sex_ thing. The only person allowed in your bedroom is you. If you want company until you get through your third year, you have to go out into the common room.”

“That _is_ why you mostly see the younger kids studying in there, or in the library,” added Leo. “Most of us don’t like it, and would study in our rooms, if we could have a group there. It’s one of the major perks of being an upperclassman.”

Tom was suspiciously quiet.

“So let me get this straight: All the little snakes are warded far _better_ than any other house, but once you get to fourth year, you’re on your own, as far as protecting yourself and your room goes.” The boys nodded. “Because fourth-years should be able to take care of themselves.” More nods. “Nothing specifically related to rape, or sex-specific wards but that totally counts as part of the whole self-reliance, take-care-of-your-own-security thing.”

Cadmus spoke up again, “Well, yeah. And even if it _was_ a sex thing, it’s not like men can only rape women. Or that women are only ever victims. Putting sex-specific wards up, especially only on one half of the house, would be asinine.”

“Which does,” Hermione acknowledged, “make sense when you put it like that.” She turned to Tom, who had moved on to toast. “I’m going to find a way to make you pay for that.”

He shrugged. “Do your worst.”

Leo sniggered. “Don’t bother, Granger. His wards are the best of anyone in fourth and fifth year. He locked us out of our bathrooms for a week and a half last term. We had to get the prefects to break in for us.”

“Think outside the box, Leo. Why would I go after him in his bedroom? He has to go to class sometime.”

“Ah, well, you don’t know the rules, yet.”

“What rules?”

“Slytherin house has only two real _rules_ : Don’t get caught; and what happens in the House stays in the House. We never, ever show a divided front outside the common room. As far as anyone outside Slytherin is allowed to know, we are an unassailable bastion of united assholes. So you really don’t have the option of just catching him in a hallway on the way to class.”

“Fine then. Tom, you’re still going to pay, as soon as someone tells me what else is and isn’t allowed in Slytherin, and it won’t involve pranking you on the way to class.”

“Whatever.”

“Slughorn usually has an after-dinner meeting on the Sunday before term. He used to do them on Saturday, I guess, but Dippet’s speeches are so long now that no one was getting to the common room until midnight. He’ll fill you in there,” volunteered Cadmus.

“What was your wakeup call this morning?” asked Dominic. “I’ve been wondering since you implied that there was something to blame Riddle for, you see.”

She laughed. “I get the impression you two don’t like Tom very much. Care to tell me why not?”

The boys exchanged a look, then spoke as one, “No.”

“Wow,” Hermione said to Tom. “I’m _impressed_.” She turned back to the boys. “I woke up this morning to someone,” she glared obviously at Tom, “carving a lovely little security reminder into my back with a scalpel.”

“Shut up, you agreed it looked good.”

“That wasn’t sarcasm,” she clarified for the table, “It really is a lovely design.”

The boys looked variously uncomfortable and ill. Bella, in contrast, looked intrigued, and spoke for the first time since Hermione and Tom had joined the group. “Can I see it?”

Tom looked sharply at Bella, interested by her interest. Hermione shrugged. “Sure, but you have to remind me later, when I’m in the common room. Maybe after Slughorn’s meeting. I’m not going to strip in the Great Hall.”

The girl nodded, and Hermione excused herself, saying that she needed to see Professor Dumbledore about some paperwork. Tom stood as well, offering to show her the way to his office. As they walked away, they heard harsh whispers following: “ _scalpel?_ ” “seemed okay with it” “fucking _weird_ ” and “the _hell_?”

As they reached the door, they heard Bella’s voice clearly above the murmurs of the nearly empty Hall: “I like them. They’re… fun.”

Hermione smirked at Tom. He just looked so confused.

“Hermione?”

“Yes, Tom?”

“People are weird.”

They walked in silence for a few minutes, making their way toward the Transfiguration Classroom and Deputy Headmaster Dumbledore’s office.

“Tom?”

“Yes, Hermione?”

“I think that may be the most ironic thing you’ve ever said to me. Also, my revenge for the ward thing has already started. Be warned.”

Two flights of stairs passed in silence.

“Hermione?”

“Yes, Tom?”

“Is my current state of confusion regarding Bellatrix Black part of your revenge for misleading you about the nature of the Slytherin house wards?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“Just checking… What about telling them about your wakeup call?”

“No. I thought their reactions might be funny, that’s all.”

Tom nodded, and went back to trying to figure out what, exactly, the revenge ploy might be.


	19. Part 1: Paperwork

As Tom and Hermione had discussed earlier in the summer, Dumbledore was one of the two most powerful wizards in Europe at the moment, and though Hermione liked him well enough in her old future, she didn’t really trust him anymore.

She thought he had done a terrible job protecting the Philosopher’s stone her first year, essentially luring a discorporate Dark Lord into the castle and Harry into danger, let alone the students, between sending the Slytherin students back to their dorm with there was a the troll in the dungeons (to say nothing of the troll-related danger she _personally_ had been in) and then letting dementors roam the campus for an entire year – and even though Sirius Black had turned out to be innocent (apparently), there’s no way he should have been able to avoid capture on the school grounds for almost an entire school year, which suggested he had never _meant_ to protect Harry in the first place. And in hindsight, getting caught up in the plan to allow _students_ to use a _time turner_ to rescue that same (innocent?) escaped murdered and a _hippogriff_ of all things, was idiotic. If Dumbledore had wanted to deal with Black, he should have captured him earlier in the year, as Hermione was _certain_ he had been capable of doing, or _ensured that Black had had a fair trial back in ’81, maybe?_ He hadn’t. She had checked.

Hermione had, in fact, ranted about the various dangers Dumbledore had allowed into Hogwarts for almost an hour, and that did not even include the Chamber of Secrets Debacle or anything related to her suspicions that Dumbledore might be raising Harry as some sort of twisted sacrifice to fulfil his gods-forsaken prophecy. She didn’t want to mention that to Tom. It was too close to the here and now. But finding out that the school had never even informed her parents that their daughter had been petrified had _not_ inclined her to trust the magical authorities.

Besides, who knew what Dumbledore had been like fifty years ago? Hermione didn’t entirely trust Tom, either, but she didn’t think he was lying when he said that Dumbledore had tried to scare him by setting his wardrobe on fire the first time they met. Tom had also warned her that Dumbledore liked to use legilimency to figure out how best to approach new students.

It would not have surprised Hermione at all to learn that Dumbledore had used legilimency on Tom, and been appalled to find the boy amoral and violent, and aimlessly manipulative at the age of eleven. Attempting a power play to establish dominance over the boy would have been just Dumbledore’s speed, she thought. After all, she had done the same thing, more or less. But she had made an effort to get on Tom’s good side, afterward, establishing wary respect rather than the enmity that had clearly developed between Dumbledore and Tom. Dumbledore, Hermione thought, would not have considered Tom important enough, or perhaps redeemable enough, to be worth cultivating.

Tom and Dumbledore, Hermione thought, were much more alike in certain ways than either one would willingly admit. On the other hand, she felt she was doing quite well handling Tom, and the plan, such as it was, was to avoid Dumbledore for the foreseeable future.

Unfortunately, that was not an option at the moment, as there was a bureaucracy to appease. For today, the plan was to play dumb, and if she thought Dumbledore was using legilimency, she would avoid eye contact and focus on trivial physical discomforts, like an itch on her foot or the need to sneeze, which the Occlumency primer suggested as a most basic way to help hide one’s thoughts and memories from casual invasion.

* * *

Tom waited outside, sitting with his back to the wall of the corridor, while Hermione entered the Deputy Headmaster’s Office. He did not like Professor Dumbledore, and Professor Dumbledore did not like him. Instead of accompanying Hermione into the Deputy Head’s presence, and potentially turning him against her, as well, he had decided to watch them by seeing how long he could hold the connection between himself and Hermione open.

She had agreed, as long as he promised not to do anything distracting while he was keeping the connection open, because she would be seeing him as well, and didn’t want to be distracted while dealing with Dumbledore. Tom thought that was a good idea.

It turned out that as long as neither person tried to break the connection or send anything across to the other, it was fairly easy to maintain for at least twenty minutes. How much longer they might have managed was not known, as, at the twenty-minute mark, after Hermione had finished skimming and signing the paperwork registering as a Hogwarts student and a resident of Magical Britain, as well as accepting her scholarship; after she had been informed that most of her professors would consider her performance in her first lessons of the semester adequate demonstration of her practical skills, but that Professor Dumbledore would prefer a separate demonstration for Transfiguration; and after she had successfully turned a teapot into a turtle, Professor Dumbledore tried to enter her mind using legilimency.

Dumbledore was immediately repulsed, as he found himself looking into the mind of his least-favorite student, Mr. Tom M. Riddle, who appeared to be partially possessing the young Miss Granger and was (most unpleasantly) recalling the feeling of a sharp knife cutting into a woman’s flesh, and the taste of blood. Dumbledore sat back in his chair suddenly, concentration broken, as Miss Granger was overcome with dizziness and the sudden shock of Tom withdrawing from her mind. Tom, with no defenses in place and partially outside his own mind as he had been, found himself rolling on the floor in pain as his mind assimilated the brush with legilimency and the backlash from snapping back into his own consciousness.

Hermione reeled, and realized as she recovered, that Tom had _not_ been lying about Dumbledore’s penchant for using legilimency indiscriminately. She wondered briefly how often he had done it to her in the past.

Dumbledore stared at the girl. She stared back, carefully focusing on the tip of his nose rather than meeting his eyes. Legilimency, the primer Tom had bought said, was easier to accomplish with eye contact. As the man had done the spell wandlessly and wordlessly, she thought he probably needed eye contact to make it work.

“What just happened, sir?”

“I’m not entirely certain, my dear.”

“Really, sir? Would you perhaps be willing to guess?”

“Well, child, if I had to guess, I would say that a mental parasite just removed itself rather suddenly from your mind.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “And how would you know, sir, the contents of my mind?”

“Alas,” Dumbledore twinkled at her, “It is only a guess. I could not possibly know for sure.”

“Why, then, sir, would you have chosen that _particular_ guess?” Before he could respond, she continued. “You wouldn’t have, by any chance, been using legilimency on a harmless student, would you?”

The twinkle disappeared and a degree of tension appeared around Dumbledore’s eyes. Hermione did not see this, however, as she was glaring resolutely at the tip of the Professor’s nose, to the exclusion of all else.

“Of course not, my dear. I have not touched your mind in the slightest.”

“I see… And what of my ‘mental parasite’? Did you touch _its_ mind?”

“If such were the case, such a parasite could not be referred to as a ‘harmless student,’ I am sure,” responded the Professor. Hermione thought she may have imagined it, but he had, perhaps, put ever so slightly more emphasis on “harmless” than “student”. Studying Parsel did train the ears marvelously for such nuances.

Young Dumbledore, Hermione thought, was not quite as good at verbal sparring as she remembered his older counterpart to be. Perhaps it was because he had not yet delved into political life.

“I think I know where we stand, then.” Hermione said, in her most enigmatic tone, and moved toward the door. “I’d say it’s been a pleasure, but… well…” She opened the door, and left, with a final comment tossed back at him: “Please bear in mind, Professor, I don’t appreciate uninvited company.”

The door closed behind her with a soft click.

* * *

Dumbledore sat behind his desk and pondered the interaction.

He would, he thought, be willing to bet good money that the girl had known exactly what happened. She must only have asked if he knew as a test.

He suspected he might have failed.

The last comment… If she did not appreciate uninvited company, then surely she should have been more pleased that he had scared Riddle out of her mind. Unless… Perhaps Riddle had been _invited_ company. Yes, that _would_ explain her cutting farewell.

And she knew that he had looked into Riddle’s mind. He had cleverly avoided both lying and admitting it, he thought, but to say they both knew where they stood? She knew.

Bloody Slytherins. He would dissolve the house, if it were up to him. Encouraging this sort of double talk and suspicious thinking was the bane of all straightforward people trying to fix the world.

He wondered what the new Slytherin would do with her knowledge.

He wondered how she knew Tom Riddle, that she would let him play hide and seek in her mind, or even _invite_ such activity, as she had suggested.

For that matter, he wondered how they had accomplished it, as possession usually required a discorporate spirit, or at the very least constant eye-contact. He had definitely seen Mr. Riddle at dinner the previous evening, suggesting that he was, in fact, still alive ( _more’s the pity, vile child_ ), and clearly they had not been maintaining eye contact.

He wondered who this girl _was_ , and resolved to send a letter to the Magicals Registry Office of the United States, to inquire. Perhaps he would also talk to Professor Slughorn, and gather his impressions of the girl.

He also resolved to keep an even closer eye on Mr. Riddle. If the boy was messing about with possession before he even started his fourth year (not to mention cutting up women for fun), it was almost guaranteed that he would fall into the Black Arts before graduation.

Young Mr. Riddle, Dumbledore thought, was well on his way to becoming the next Dark Lord, and they hadn’t even finished dealing with the current one.

The Deputy Headmaster sighed, and sealed Miss Granger’s registration, to be forwarded to the Ministry. Then he moved his memory of the interaction to his pensive, so that he could look at it again later. An up-and-coming Light Lord’s work was never done.


	20. Part 1: Legilimency

The door closed behind Hermione with a soft click.

“Tom? Tom, are you alright?” He was lying on the floor, hands pressed to his eyes.

“Ah, more or less?” He opened his eyes and squinted in the light from a nearby window. “Right bitch of a headache. Quiet?”

She nodded, and took his hand to help him up.

She led him to the library, to her favorite table, which had been, thankfully, in the same secluded corner for well over fifty years, and dimmed the nearby lamps. She motioned for him to sit, and took the opposite chair before opening the connection herself.

It seemed the recoil had hit him harder because he had been paying more attention to her than she had been to him. This, she thought, suggested that it was not only a two-way street, but that it was not necessarily symmetrical. Dumbledore had, she thought, implied that he had read _Tom’s_ mind, when he had tried to read hers. _That_ must mean that Tom’s mind had somehow come through into hers, or had been overlying her surface thoughts, maybe. Which in turn meant that they had been using legilimency on each other, and not known. Could two people even _use_ legilimency on a third at the same time? Maybe that’s why it had gone so poorly.

A sort of passive legilimency-esque connection, then, based on their blood bond, that was the working model.

Now, however, she thought she ought to delve a bit deeper and more actively into Tom’s mind, to see if she could tell what Dumbledore had done to him.

She pushed herself away from her body, and found herself staring at her body, frozen on the other side of the table, through Tom’s eyes. She turned her attention inward, like when she was talking to the Sorting Hat, and saw Tom’s recent memories as a tumbled tower of iridescent blocks, different facets showing different sensory input. Some of them had rolled away from the others. She touched them lightly.

The gleam of a knife, the taste of a sausage, and the overwhelming pain of magical backlash flashed through her consciousness.

 _Tom?_ She whispered. _Tom, can you hear me?_

_Yes. What are you doing?_

_Legilimency, I think. What does your mind usually look like?_

_I don’t know. I expect it’s different from the outside. I feel like I’ve been torn apart. Everything is … disconnected. I’m missing bits and pieces. What did we have for breakfast?_

_Hold on, I’m going to try something. Sorry in advance if this hurts._

_Just do it._

She nudged the block with the taste of sausage gently until it came into contact with the rest of the pile.

_Sausages? I had sausage for breakfast. And you were talking about the Slytherin room wards._

_Right. Some of your memories have come disconnected from the rest. I’m going to push them all back together so you can remember them, but I don’t think I can put them back where they belong._

_I think maybe I can. Just get everything in contact, and I’ll see if I can put things back in order._

She pushed all the blocks that had fallen away from the mass of the collapsed tower back to it. The furthest from the tower was the one with the gleam of a knife, the feel of it slicing through her own skin, and the taste of blood. She shuddered, slightly, as she realized it was hers, but put it in contact with the other pieces. She pulled away as the tower started to reconstruct itself, growing out of, she could now see, a maze of other fantastical shapes, twisted around each other in what had to be more than three dimensions, but she could not visualize it as anything more. It was beautiful, like an Escher painting, strange, and oddly compelling. She wanted to go further, see more…

_Hermione, still there?_

_Yes, Tom._

_I think it’s done. Go back to yourself before I break the connection so we don’t have to put you back together as well._

She turned outward again, with a final longing “glance” at the maze of Tom’s mind, and followed a dim awareness of her own body until she found herself looking across the table again. She blinked.

“Hey, Tom?”

“Yes, Hermione?”

“Let’s not do that again for a while.”

“Okay.”

Tom broke the connection.

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Tom re-organized the events since he had woken up chronologically and re-defined the appropriate connections between similarly associated events – all breakfasts, the tastes of different sausages, conversations with Hermione, tricks played on other Slytherins, and so on. Hermione wondered what would have happened if she had gone deeper into Tom’s mind, inside the construction, rather than admiring its labyrinthine walls from the exterior. She was certain she could have, but not so sure she would have been able to return.

Tom spoke first. “Hey, Hermione?”

“Yes, Tom?”

“Was spending the better part of half an hour trying to figure out your revenge, your revenge for misleading you about the nature of the Slytherin house wards?”

“Yes, though I was hoping it would last a bit longer than that.”

“Very subtle. My compliments.”

“Thanks ever so. I do try.”

They smirked at each other, and made their way out of the library. By mutual choice, it seemed, they headed back toward their common room.

“So what happened with Dumbledore? One second I was in your head, and the next, everything since I woke up this morning was in pieces, and I had a splitting headache.”

“Well, bearing in mind that this is all speculation, and half of it’s based on what we just did trying to put you back together, and the rest is based on that one legilimency primer you bought, and it’s not very theoretical,” Hermione started.

“Yes, bearing that in mind.”

“Shut up. I _think_ when we’re using the connection to just watch each other, it’s a kind of passive legilimency. You were more interested in what I was doing with Dumbledore than sitting in the hall, so you pulled your consciousness further into my head, like I just did to you. I’d guess that’s the level of “surface thoughts,” though you didn’t really have much going on when I was in there.”

“Not surprising. I don’t remember anything from when everything fell apart, until you were in my head. Nothing about getting to the library.”

Hermione nodded and continued. “Maybe you couldn’t make new memories while you were trying to deal with the backlash? And then there’s your memory-construction, which is probably what an actual legilimens would go after and try to get inside.

“Dumbledore broke the connection between us when he tried to read my mind. I think the backlash from getting snapped back to your own head disrupted all the memories that hadn’t quite _settled_ yet, since the last time you slept. I read something once about why people need to sleep. A lot of it is so we can process the events of the day. So that would make sense. Everything that hadn’t been processed was more vulnerable, and some pieces of your memories of this morning were knocked out of contact with the rest.

“I was talking to you, inside your head, and you could only remember the pieces that were in contact with the rest of your memory-structure, so maybe your consciousness retreated to inside your memories? You probably could have found your way out and pulled everything back together given enough time. What did it look like on your side?”

They reached the door and Tom whispered the password, _quagmire portcullis_. Hermione wondered idly who was responsible for inventing the passwords. They couldn’t be randomly generated, could they?

They found chairs in an isolated corner of the common room as Tom thought, trying to articulate the answer to Hermione’s question. “That all makes sense, I think. On my side, it was just pain, and then confusion. It was really weird when you started pulling my memories back together. I could tell where everything was supposed to go, more or less, before. I had an idea of where there were holes, like breakfast, because I knew I had to have eaten _something_. And when you got everything back in contact, I was able to put all the events back in order. They hang together much better when there’s a reasonable cause and effect.

“And then I guess after you left, I was kind of re-defining the connections between memories. You know how one thing will remind you of a similar thing? Like that. That’s probably what you mean by _settling_ , I think. Maybe I would have kept wondering about your revenge until tomorrow morning, if you usually have to sleep for that to happen.

“But you were talking about seeing all this, and I didn’t see your memory-structure at all. I was just kind of looking through your eyes, instead of looking at you from the outside, like I do when I shock you or something.”

“I think you were focused externally, since you wanted to see what we were talking about. I kind of turned around and went internally, like talking to the Sorting Hat.”

“I see…”

“So what did you want to talk to me about last night?”

“Oh! Just, well… Did you mean it, when you said this place feels like a home you never knew you were missing?”

“Yeah, I really did. I still do. It’s… peaceful, somehow.”

“It’s just… I know exactly what you mean. That’s how I felt the first time I got here. It just seemed strange, I guess, that you felt the same way. Important, maybe.”

“Maybe,” Hermione yawned. “What time is it?”

Tom snapped his fingers to cast a quick _tempus_ charm. “Ah, half three? That can’t be right. Just a second.” He pulled his wand from his pocket and re-cast the spell. “Huh. Guess legilimency takes a lot longer than it seems.”

“Apparently. I’m going to have a nap before dinner. If I find you in my room before six, I will be very upset.”

She meandered toward her room, Tom’s voice floating behind her: “Lock your door.”

“Jackass.”

She did lock her door, though.


	21. Part 1: Dinner and a Show

Hermione’s eyes snapped open at, her _tempus_ showed, 6:05. She wasn’t sure what had woken her, since there was nothing out of place in her room (including Tom), but it was time for dinner. She rolled out of bed, retrieved the robe she had been wearing earlier from the back of a chair, and made her way to the bathroom to wash her face and fix her hair before heading to the common room.

At 6:11, there was a loud bang in the corridor, and Hermione poked her head out of the bathroom to see, not Tom (as she had expected), but Bella, lying in a tangle of robes, slightly scorched, and stunned by her sudden impact with the wall opposite Hermione’s door.

She helped the younger girl to her feet. “Hello, Bella.”

“What the Dark Powers was that?”

“You touched my door and set off the Flames of Arswan, Repulsion, and Percussive Jinxes I set up to stop Tom from sneaking into my room again,” Hermione explained, replacing the jinxes with a new series of hexes. “Did he send you to wake me for dinner?” she asked as she led Bella back to the common room.

“No, he said you were in your room, and if I wanted to catch you and see his artwork, this might be a good time,” she said, rubbing the back of her head. “Overkill, much?”

None of the boys were in the common room. Hermione supposed they had already headed to the Great Hall.

“No, I don’t think so… I really expected Tom to disable the Flames of Arswan. I was napping. The Percussive Jinx was to alert me, and the Repulsion was to stop him getting in before I was ready. It didn’t occur to me that he would send a minion. Sorry.”

“I’m not a minion!”

Hermione smirked. “The fact that I just found you in the hall, charred and stunned, says otherwise.”

Bella tried to kick Hermione as they climbed the stairs to the Entry Hall, but missed.

“A word of advice,” the older girl continued, as though oblivious to her junior’s ire, “ _Tom_ is an _asshole_. Unrepentantly untrustworthy. He will hurt you if you let him. He is also a show off. I am absolutely certain he wants to see the look on your face when you see my back. If you don’t ask when he’s there, I’m sure he’ll find a way to bring it up. Ergo, the only reason he suggested you come to my room, was to wake me for dinner and/or set off whatever wards I had put up.” They entered the Great Hall and made their way toward the Slytherin table.

“Repeat after me: Tom is an asshole.”

“Tom is an asshole.”

Tom raised an eyebrow at the sight of the scorched and disheveled Bella. “I’m not the one who hit you with… what, the Flames of Arswan?”

Hermione nodded at Tom and, ignoring Leo’s protests against teaching his baby cousin to swear, added, “You’re the one who sent her to knock on my door. I’ve changed the jinxes, now, of course.”

“Of course.”

Leo finished taking his cousin to task for swearing, and she sat next to Hermione, whispering that Leo was also an asshole. Hermione snorted into her peas. The pureblood boys returned to their discussion of Quidditch tryouts and the new Charms professor’s Dueling Club. Tom and Bella appeared to by having some sort of staring contest: Bella was trying her best to glare threateningly at him, and Tom was watching with mild interest to see how long it would last.

Hermione tried to get the boys to tell her about the professors. She recognized Slughorn, Dumbledore, Flitwick, and Sprout, and Dippet from the speech the night before, but the rest of the high table were mysteries. Edmond and Leo had pointed out McKinnon, who taught Divination, and Binns, who was still _alive_ , and were in the middle of describing Sedgwick, who was apparently the Defense instructor, when Scorpius noticed that Tom and Bella were _still_ staring at each other. He pointed this out to Leo, who asked Tom to stop staring at Bella as though he were going to eat her.

Tom protested that he wasn’t going to eat Bella, but did stop staring at her to make Leo shut up. Bella, apparently feeling as though she had been dismissed, threw a pea at Tom. It landed in his hair, and he didn’t notice. Hermione chuckled, and decided to let it stay there, rather than escalate the situation.

The carillon rang seven, and Professor Slughorn stood to direct the new Slytherins and Slytherin Prefects to meet him in their Common Room in fifteen minutes. Hermione, Bella, the seven other new first years, and six prefects made their way out of the Hall. Tom walked back with Hermione and Bella, explaining that there was no reason other students _couldn’t_ hang around the common room during the New Students Meeting, they just usually _didn’t_. Spending as much time as possible in the generally-disliked Common Room was just one of Tom Riddle’s many eccentricities.

As they entered Slytherin, Hermione pointed out that Tom had a pea in his hair. He rolled his eyes and muttered something about sneaky first-years. By the time Slughorn started talking, the pea had been relocated to Bella’s head.

* * *

The prefects lined up in a half-circle behind Professor Slughorn. The first years, with the exception of the somewhat disheveled Black girl, who seemed to have attached herself to the fourth years (the arrangement didn’t look like it was really working out for her, given the state of her), formed a loose knot in front of him. Riddle, who wasn’t even supposed to be there, but had shown up every year so far with the excuse of wanting to be aware of any changes to the House Rules immediately, rather than waiting for new information to trickle down through the prefects, and (as Horace was well aware) the ulterior motive of securing the prefect’s position for his own year (and in which pursuit he had already been successful, though Horace had not yet seen fit to tell him), stood off to the right side of the circle, with Granger and Black, midway between the prefects and the firsties. Horace was certain this was intentional, and admired young Riddle’s gift for the symbolic gesture.

Horace discussed the traits that defined his House for several minutes (ambition and ruthlessness, basically), then outlined the two major rules of Slytherin House, which were, as the boys had mentioned at breakfast, to show a united front outside of their own House, and to not get caught breaking school rules or minor house rules. He chuckled at that, to show that he knew full well they _would_ break the little rules. That was why they were _not to get caught_.

The minor house rules, and the basic school rules were fairly similar, myriad, and listed in several books which were in the House Library (Horace pointed to a chamber off the main Common Room). Mostly, the Head of House said, they boiled down to common sense, and don’t use magic in the corridors (though magic could be used freely in Slytherin). He explained that personal elves were not necessary, as the school elves would take care of all personal needs, though family elves were welcome to carry messages for students. He discussed the fact that the only person allowed in one’s bedroom was oneself until fourth year, and that the wards would keep out any other students except the seventh-year prefects, who would periodically check for contraband items. He said that ‘contraband’ meant anything illegal, and also listed a number of legal but potential dangerous items that were not allowed. He described the system for tutoring which was in place, and listed his office hours, if any student should wish to talk to him outside of their mandatory monthly one-on-one new-student meetings.

He covered the Slytherin policy on hazing – no permanent damage, and if a student felt that they were being harassed to the point of bullying, they should come talk to him (he gave the Black girl, who seemed to have been blown up even before classes started, a significant look). The practice of Dark Arts was discouraged, not forbidden, but even so, he said, it would be wise not to practice Dark Arts outside the dorm. He laughed as he noted that he did not know of any students in Slytherin who practiced _Light_ Arts, but if they did, they would probably want to keep it to themselves, as most of the students in Slytherin were from Dark or Neutral families, and it would not be politically expedient to isolate themselves from their peers. Black Arts and White Arts were forbidden, on the grounds that most of the Black arts were illegal, and neither class of rituals was something that students should be messing around with. Active Pagans, both light and dark (though most Light families had given up Paganism) had unofficial permission to leave campus on the nights of the six major Sabbats that school was in session.

Finally, Horace introduced his six prefects, who were, as he put it, his eyes, ears, and hands in the dorm. They could remove points from any student for infractions of the major or minor rules, give detentions, and submit requests to him to award points as well. Minor disagreements could be settled by any prefect, though if one wanted to bring a case against another Slytherin student for gross misconduct and request physical punishment, suspension, or expulsion, that student would have to wait for the Prefects’ Council, which occurred on the new moon of each month, “in accordance with the bylaws” (He noted that such a case had not been made in five years, and he would like to keep it that way, but the rule was still on the books.) Seventh-year prefects were Ambrose Parker and Sylvia Nott; sixth-year prefects were Danforth Bones and Lucrezia Mulciber; fifth-year prefects were Liam MacAbee and Millicent Kendry.

Bellatrix Black, Hector Bulstrode, Abigail Greengrass, Johnathan Masters, Lucan Parkinson, Kendrick Pierce, Leon Quince, and Mary Williams introduced themselves, followed by Hermione Granger. Tom Riddle did not introduce himself. This was, potentially intentionally, overlooked by Slughorn, who finally dismissed the meeting at half eight, retreating to his quarters.

* * *

Hermione was quite impressed by the number of regulations Slytherin apparently had. Gryffindor’s policies could be summed up as “Don’t blow up the tower”…and given Fred and George, even that was negotiable. She made a mental note to find the rulebooks as soon as possible…along with making Tom swear a vow of alliance and exploring the Chamber of Secrets. On thinking of it, she was slightly surprised he hadn’t dragged her there this afternoon. He must have been worn out by the Legilimency Incident as well.

Tom was interested to note that his presence at the New Students’ Meeting was apparently no longer cause for attention, and thought that he had probably secured his place as prefect next year.

Bella had been bored for most of the lecture. She had stopped paying attention after “don’t get caught” and “house unity” were discussed, and thought that the significant look Slughorn had given her was for fidgeting.


	22. Part 1: A Strange Definition of Beauty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: discussions and descriptions of child abuse (physical and emotional)

As soon as the prefects and other first years dispersed from the common room, Bella turned to Hermione. “Pleeeeease can I see your back, now? I’ve been waiting _all day_.”

Hermione laughed. The tiny girl looked so pathetic, begging with her charred robes and singed hair. The pea was still noticeably displayed as well. “Fine, but first,” she pulled out her wand and cast three quick spells on the girl, “ _Reparo, tereginium, conmutatio_. And you have a pea in your hair.” She picked it out.

“Thank you.”

“Aw, I wanted to see how long it took her to notice.”

“Shut up. You wouldn’t have noticed it was in _your_ hair until tomorrow morning.”

“You _told_ him?”

“Yes. It looked stupid. Can’t have my year being made to look bad by ickle firsties, can I?”

Bella crossed her arms and pouted. “Ooooo, I should—”

“Do you want to see my back or not?” Hermione interrupted.

“Yes. Yes I do.”

“Come on, then.”

Hermione headed back to her bedroom. Bella followed, as did Tom, without being asked, as Hermione had known he would.

She removed the jinxes on the door and made the others face the wall as she switched her robes for a muggle skirt and lay face-down on the bed.

“Okay, you can look, now.”

Tom cast a light charm to hover over her, and sat cross-legged, with his back to the headboard. Then, apparently recovered from their earlier legilimency mishap, opened their connection, presumably as an invitation for Hermione to watch Bella’s reaction with him.

They watched the younger girl crawl across the bed to hover over Hermione, fascinated. “Beautiful,” she whispered, fingers fluttering over one of the roses, hesitant, at first, to touch, then tracing the lines of the thorns, the different textures of pale scars and soft, new skin.

 _In case you were wondering,_ thought Tom to Hermione _, that’s the appropriate response to something strange and beautiful_.

Hermione ignored him. It really wasn’t. Not when “something strange and beautiful” was a human being used as a cameo stone.

“Did it …hurt?” The girl’s voice held what Hermione could only describe as a hint of reverence.

“I was petrified during,” murmured Hermione, finding it very difficult to speak and maintain Tom’s point of view at the same time, “But after, yes. A lot.”

Bella’s eyes grew large as she continued tracing the patterns of the leaves. She bit her lip. Suddenly, she looked at Tom. “Could you… would you… do me?”

Hermione pulled back into her own mind and sat up, sheet held to her chest. “No.”

But Tom was already grinning like the proverbial cat that had caught the canary, “Of course.”

“Tom. No.”

Both Tom and Bella glared at her.

“Seriously. No.”

“Why not?”

She looked back and forth between them thinking that this had to be the strangest situation she had ever been in. “Because she’s _eleven_ ,” she said to Tom, pointing at Bella, then switched, “And _he’s_ a sadist, aka, an _asshole,_ as we discussed not _two hours ago_.”

“But it’s _beautiful_.”

“And did you not tell me on Thursday that it was your sisterly duty to inform me that there were people who would volunteer for this sort of thing?” Tom was standing now, though Hermione couldn’t have said when he moved, and leaning against one of the bed-posts, the epitome of casual interest.

“Argh!” Hermione made a noise of frustration. “I didn’t mean _besotted first-years_!”

“I am _not_ besotted. Take it back!” Bella jumped to her feet.

“What does being a first-year have to do with it?”

“I won’t take it back. You are absolutely fascinated. And you! It’s about being able to make a knowledgeable decision! I swear to all the gods, I will beat ethics into your head with a _hammer_ if I have to! Eleven is _not_ old enough to consent to being freaking _butchered_!”

“ _Butchered_? Really?”

“I am too old enough!”

“You fucking _skinned me_!”

“Only maybe 10% of your back. Maximum. _Butchered_ implies that it was entirely graceless and lacking in artistry. Take it back.”

“Fine. I take back ‘butchered’. But eleven is still too young.”

“Why?”

“Yes, why? And _take back besotted_!”

“Because, Bella, you’re a _child_. You can’t possibly have any idea of the trauma this sort of thing would put you through – I’m not even talking about mental or psychological fallout from _asking_ for this much pain here, even just the _physical_ side of it would be overwhelming. Your body is still developing. It wouldn’t be good for you! Hell, it wasn’t good for _me_ , but I didn’t—What the bloody hell are you doing?”

Bellatrix, who had been standing on the bed in a towering rage (presumably because she would not be as intimidating without the extra foot and a half of height), was stripping off her robe. She wore no muggle clothes under it, only her pants. She crossed her arms over her chest and turned around. “Tell me again I don’t understand what I’m asking for!”

Her back and thighs were covered with stripes, from whipping or caning, Hermione couldn’t tell. She sat, momentarily speechless at the sight. Tom ghosted over to the edge of the bed and traced a single long, pale finger along the freshest welt. Bella spun around at his touch and nearly fell off the bed. He grabbed her wrist and steadied her, taking a sudden interest in the skin under his fingers. He twisted it to show Hermione thick scars, one atop the other, marching up her forearm. The angle had to be painful, but the girl said nothing.

The freshest cut opened at Tom’s mistreatment. He stared at the drops of blood beading along the cracked scab, then looked the girl in the eye as he licked the wound. Bella did fall off the bed at that, collapsing into Tom’s arms with a soft “meep” sound.

Hermione did _not_ like the look they were sharing. “Tom! Put her down! Right now!”

He did so, and turned to her with his usual smirk firmly in place, “Don’t give me that look, Hermione. I already told Leo I wouldn’t eat Bellatrix. Much. Not enough for him to notice, anyway. So, eleven’s still too young?”

“Shut up, Tom. Now you’re just being creepy on purpose.” He nodded, grinning (Bella looked slightly disappointed) and Hermione continued, “Bella, is there anything you’d like to tell me about your family life?”

“NO,” the little girl said, emphatically, burying herself in Hermione’s blanket. “I’m not the perfect little pureblood _prince_ my parents wanted, and that’s all I’m going to say on the subject.”

“Bella, there has to be something we can—”

“I said NO! I know you’re not from one of the old families, so you won’t understand, but this is _normal_ , okay? Heads of House have the right to train their heir presumptive _however_ they see fit. The point is, I know what I’m asking for, and I know what I can handle, and for once in my life, I want pain to be associated with something _beautiful_ and _delicate_ , not a _punishment_! Okay?” The girl was yelling by the end of her tirade, and finished it by pulling her head under the blanket with the rest of her.

Hermione sighed. She couldn’t very well argue that the girl wouldn’t be able to handle the pain, or didn’t know what she was asking for when she so clearly had suffered violence already. And she was concerned that Bella’s desire to be a canvas for Tom’s “artwork” was the same as the motivation behind the cuts on her arm, but she knew that she couldn’t really stop either one of them. If Bella wanted to hurt herself, she would find a way. And it was somewhat surprising that Tom was even pretending she had any control over his actions. She got up to find a shirt. Tom was leaning against a bedpost again, waiting for her response. She covered herself and walked around the bed to dig Bella’s head out of her blankets. The girl was glaring daggers at her. Hermione wondered idly if she would someday become accustomed to glares, shrugs, and smirks as the primary displays of human emotion.

“Fine. I don’t like it, but I won’t try to stop you. Okay?” And the glaring stopped like magic.

“Really?”

“Really?” echoed Tom.

Hermione sighed again. “Yes, but I think there are some practical issues you’re not considering. And I _also_ think that I need to have a talk with each of you about what exactly is going on here.”

“What practical issues?” asked Tom.

“Well, she’s still only eleven. She is going to grow at least a _little_ more.” Bella stuck her tongue out at this. “So if you do anything like as intricate as the thorns on my back, they’re going to get distorted as she grows. I really don’t think you should do anything permanent. And you only have a three-day window on cuts before the healing would leave scars. So that’s the first thing.” Tom nodded. “The second thing is I think you should wait until after classes on Friday, so she’s not distracted during class. Even partially healed like you did for mine, it still itches a lot.” Bella nodded, somewhat reluctant, apparently, to wait. “Third thing, sterilization and general medical care. Do you even know any first aid spells?  And licking wounds is so not sanitary. And I don’t even want to know what you did with the skin you removed.”

Tom smiled in a way that said she _really_ didn’t want to know. “No, I don’t know any of the sterilization or healing spells. I never even bothered learning the surgical spells.”

“I didn’t think so. The Restoration of Integrity spell is usually used on inanimate objects, by the way.” He shrugged. “So I think you should wait until this weekend at least, and I want to be there to make sure you keep things clean.”

“That’s fine, as long as you don’t distract me.”

“I don’t get a say in this?”

“No.”

“What did you want to add, Bella?”

“Well… just that if you’re not doing anything permanent, can you get rid of my scars?”

Tom thought about it for a moment before saying yes. Healing old scars required removing all of the scar tissue, and then healing the new, larger wounds. It hurt, a lot. Most people, even in the magical world, wouldn’t bother. Hermione, remembering the extent of the scarring and the pain of her own roses, interjected a fourth point: not to remove more skin from Bella at one time than he had from Hermione. If Bella wanted all of her scars gone, she would have to have the patches fully healed as they went along, which would hurt like hell, but _probably_ wouldn’t result in too much blood loss or shock. Maybe. Tom shrugged. “I can work with that.”

“Thank you!” The younger girl struggled out from under the blanket and retrieved her robes, covering herself before hugging first Hermione, then Tom, then veritably _skipping_ out of the room.


	23. Part 1: Alone at Last

Tom watched the door slam behind Bellatrix, and then looked at Hermione. “Hermione?”

“Yes, Tom?”

“People are weird.”

“No, I think it’s mostly just you. And Bella.” Hermione flopped across the bed, feet on the floor, thinking _Gods preserve me, there are two of them. Talk about a match made in Hell._

Tom joined her. They lay there in silence for a moment.

“Why did she hug me?”

“Because you agreed to do something that she wants very much, taking away her scars. Why did you pretend my opinion mattered at all in that little play?”

“Because… I don’t want some first-year going off and getting me thrown out of school if she were to react even worse than you did this morning. I know my reaction to violence is… fundamentally different than others’. And it is hard for me to make an objective prediction about something when I want it to turn out one way. So I trust your judgment in trying to predict how normal people will react better than my own, for things like this.”

“That… actually sounded honest… and may be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me. Are you okay? Got a fever, or something?” she asked, false concern etched across her face. She didn’t roll away quite fast enough to dodge Tom’s smack to her shoulder. “I have to say, though, if you think _Bella’s_ reaction is indicative of normality, you’re in trouble. She looked at my back the way you looked at hers. Even _my_ reaction isn’t “normal” anymore. I’ve spent too much time with you. There would be much more shock and screaming, normally.”

“ _More_ screaming?”

“Shut up. Yes. I’m going to figure out how to articulate why this arrangement is problematic, and then we’re going to have a talk.”

“I don’t see it. I get what I want, she gets what she wants, you’re extraordinarily uncomfortable with the whole thing, which is funny…”

“Let me think about it. I’ll get back to you. And I haven’t forgotten you owe me a vow of alliance.”

“You owe me one too.”

“I’ll figure something out… at some point this week. I need to figure out wards for my room tomorrow, since _someone_ didn’t warn me before we got here, and then I didn’t have time today. And when did you want to go explore the Chamber?”

“Well, today, but Dumbledore ruined that. Saturday, probably. I want to spend the whole day there.”

“Good. That will give me time to practice conjuring mirrored sunglasses…”

“What?”

“The gaze of a basilisk is deadly, if you meet its eyes. Meeting its eyes _indirectly_ , in a mirror or through a camera, paralyzes you, and you have to use a mandrake restorative draught to counter the effects. I’m not going anywhere near a basilisk without _something_ to at least partially refract its gaze.”

Tom propped himself up on an elbow to look at her. “How do you know so much about basilisks?”

“I’ll tell you when you’re older.”

He flopped back again. “Fine. Be that way.”

Hermione smiled. Two months of her constant companionship had begun to take a toll on Tom’s 1940s vocabulary. She pulled out her dayplanner and made a few notes. “I’d _like_ to wait and make the draught first, so we have some on hand if something goes wrong, but it takes months. Just tell the damn thing to keep its eyes closed.”

“ _SS’hha !/^(c-c#)lfff_ ”

“Was that a chirp?”

“An ascending backclick-chirp. The chirp was a c to c-sharp.”

“Yeah, _you_ need to tell it to keep its eyes closed. There are some sounds I’m _never_ going to be able to make.” She scribbled a bit more. “So, Monday, real wards. Tuesday through Thursday, keep working on the wards, and also find time to talk to Bella about what the hell she’s thinking, and practice conjuring sunglasses, and figure out how to explain to you that you and Bella are both insane,” Tom snorted “and work out the wording for the vows. Friday, your thing with Bella – where do you want to do it?”

“I was thinking here.”

“Of course you were.”

“You don’t have to share a hallway or a bathroom, and you were insisting on being there anyway. Make sure you put up a sound-ward.”

“Fine. After classes. And then Saturday the Chamber, and Sunday homework. Any idea what the class schedule is?”

“Well, since our year is so small, all our classes are full-fourth-year. Someone told me we have potions first, and fourth-year astronomy is nine to eleven on Mondays, so it’s going to be a really long day. There’s an odd number now, for potions. I wonder if old Slug will let me work alone.”

“Noooooo…don’t make me do potions with an idiot! Maybe he’ll make us do seven groups of three. Who else would you want?”

“If I _had_ to choose one? Alethea Malfoy. Scorpius’ twin. Ravenclaw. Less stupid than the rest.”

“High praise from you.”

“Take it as you will. She also hates me slightly less than most. I think. Wait. Did you just _put in your dayplanner_ that we are going to _explore the Chamber of Secrets_ on Saturday? You’re in Slytherin now, in case you’ve forgotten. People _will_ sneak looks at it.”

“It’s in code!”

“What kind of code?”

She tossed him the journal. She had doodled an ouroboros wearing sunglasses on Saturday, and a nightshade flower with a viper rearing over it, fangs barred in Friday evening. ‘Wards’ had simply been written. Everyone already knew that she hadn’t known she needed them until this morning. Their vow was symbolized by a snake sleeping on an open book in the corner of Thursday.

Tom tossed it back. “Acceptable, though the belladonna might be too obvious a symbol for Bellatrix.”

“And a snake isn’t too obvious for the only known Parselmouth in the school?”

“Well, it is, but I like it, so it can stay.”

Hermione laughed, wondering what his journals looked like, if her pictograms were too obvious. “Go away. I’m tired, and I apparently need to spell you out of my room before I can go to sleep.”

“Apparently. Fine. Do you want me to wake you for breakfast?”

“Going to send another first-year to knock on the door?”

“No, I thought I’d shock your hand. Did that work?”

“At 6:05?” Tom nodded. “It did, but I didn’t realize that’s what it was. If I’m not there by seven, sure, go for it.”

“See you in the morning, then.”

* * *

Hermione replaced the three jinxes that had caught the wayward Bella earlier that day, set her alarm, and tried to go to sleep. It wasn’t until she found herself with silent tears rolling down her face that she realized this was the first night she had really been  _alone_ to mourn since finding herself in 1940. She cried herself into exhaustion, as the full impact of the past two months rolled over her:

She had left behind everything and everyone she had ever known, as completely as if she had been hit by a train. Her friends and family had to have mourned her loss by now. Or, no, wait. Harry and Ron would only just be realizing she was missing, and panicking. She had fallen into the middle of the London Blitz (mustn’t forget – there’s a war going on), and had to invent a new identity as an American half-blood orphan. Her only friends, if you could call them that, were a sadistic sociopath who may or may not be the next Dark Lord and an abused, masochistic, first-year pureblood princess with anger management issues.

She had if not _robbed_ , definitely conned the magical and/or muggle banking system out of almost 1500 pounds, which was _a lot of money_ in 1940, drawing the attentions of the goblins, for better or worse. She had accidentally instigated some kind of (probably illegal) blood magic ritual with the aforementioned potential Dark Lord, allowing him a constant back-door access into her mind.

She was voluntarily planning to face down the same basilisk that had already petrified her once in less than a week, had taken on the responsibility of acting as moral advisor and possibly amateur psychologist for her two companions, and had been sorted into the snake pit, where every day would be a contest of wills against her housemates.

She was terrified of revealing certain things she knew, and certain questions she had about magic to the only person who might help her further research them, because he might use them to do more harm than good, in the pursuit of power. On the other hand, she had already introduced that same person to the potentials of economic exploitation and had promised to help him explore time magic. The only saving grace was that was planning to extract a vow, which, if worded perfectly, and subtly enough that the most _Slytherin_ person she had ever met would not see the potential, might restrain said person from destroying the world he wanted to rule. Or at least put her in a position to try to guide his hand over the next few years.

In comparison, trying to learn Parseltongue through imitation, waking up with her back turned into some sort of living cameo and attempting to learn mind magic on the fly to defend herself and her blood-bonded sociopath from the former-future leader of the Light, who was currently in the middle of a decade-long struggle against the current European Dark Lord, were positively _minor_.

Her last thought before entirely succumbing to unconsciousness was _How can this be my life? How can this be  anyone’s life?_


	24. Interlude: Conversations with Dumbledore - First Confrontation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fits into the prologue chapter 'Highlights of Hermione's Third Year'.

###  The First Confrontation

“Ah, Miss Granger, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Dumbledore was sitting behind his desk, looking for all the world as though he had expected the girl to arrive just when she did, halfway through the second week of classes.

“We need to talk, Headmaster.” Hermione sat at on the very edge of one of the two chairs facing Dumbledore’s desk. She was, quite frankly, terrified about what she was about to attempt to do. She was fairly certain that this could be considered extortion. She would outright ask for what she wanted to know, first, of course, but the very fact that she had come into this office with a plan to pressure the _Headmaster_ , of all people, into telling her his closely-held secrets was daunting. And the fact that Fred and George wholeheartedly supported her was not comforting in the least.

“Is this about the Time Turner? I was under the impression that things were going smoothly?”

“No, the Time Turner is fine, sir. It’s… it’s about Harry. And Moldyshorts.”

“Moldyshorts?” Dumbledore repeated with a delighted grin. He hadn’t heard that particular appellation in years. He had quite forgotten about it.

Hermione flushed. “Sorry, sir. That’s what… some of the students call him. You Know Who.”

“Call him Voldemort, my dear,” the old professor said reflexively. “After all, fear of a name only increases fear of the thing itself.”

Hermione was confused. Surely Dumbledore couldn’t be serious. “But, sir… I heard people had good reason to fear the name Voldemort. Wasn’t it Taboo’d? And to call him by his chosen name is surely to give him more respect than he deserves?”

“Hmmm… perhaps.” It couldn’t really be possible that he had been encouraging people to do something Tom wanted for the past ten years, could it?

“But that’s not why I’m here, anyway, Headmaster.”

Dumbledore slipped briefly into the very surface-most layers of Hermione’s thoughts. “No, you’re here because you want me to tell you everything I know about Tom and Harry. I’m afraid I can’t do that, my dear.”

“Yes, sir, you really can.” The girl nodded earnestly. “And I must insist that you do. Harry is my friend, sir. And I think… Well, it’s bad, what I think, and I’ve already told Harry most of it. I’m just hoping what you have to tell me won’t be as bad.”

She must _insist_? Really? “Miss Granger. I’m afraid I really cannot allow you to simply barge into my office and demand information about things which do not concern you and which you are simply too young to understand. Please return to your dorm. This conversation is over.”

“No, sir.”

“Excuse me?” Dumbledore’s expression was somewhere between amused and irritated.

“I said no, sir.” The girl was now on her feet, glaring at him from beneath a cloud of frizzy brown hair. Her hands were shaking, and she wasn’t sure if it was from anger or fear. Maybe both. But at least part of it was from being absolutely pissed at the suggestion that she was too young to handle the truth. “You are wrong, sir. It does concern me. And with all possible respect, I’m not leaving without the information I came here to get. I am _not_ too young to be involved in whatever madness is going to occur this term. In fact, I’m nearly certain I’ll be involved whether I want to be or not! I wasn’t too young to deal with your idiotic obstacle course in first year, or to figure out the mystery of the Chamber of Secrets, or brew Polyjuice or get petrified last term. Harry wasn’t too young to fight off a possessed teacher and a basilisk, and Ginny wasn’t too young to bloody well get possessed by Tom Fucking Riddle. The War’s not over, there’s a notorious mass murderer on the loose looking for my best friend, and we’re in it whether you think we’re old enough or not. And it will be safer for all of us if we know what we’re dealing with. This isn’t just about _me_ , it’s about my friends and _their safety_ , and there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to protect them. So please, sir, tell me what I want to know!”

“No.”

“Excuse me, sir?” The child looked as though she was doing her best to cause him pain through the strength of her glare alone. If looks could kill, Albus was certain he would at least have been stabbed in the throat. The girl reminded him of someone he knew, a long time ago. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

“The information you are seeking is highly privileged, and _you_ are a muggle-born girl two days shy of her fourteenth birthday. You cannot possibly understand all the potential ramifications of allowing this information into the public sphere. Trust me when I tell you that you do not need to know.”

“Forgive my asking, sir, but what the _hell_ does being muggle-born or being a girl have to do with it? No, actually. Don’t answer that. How about, instead, sir, I tell _you_ what I already know, which I will ensure that everyone knows, if you don’t tell me the truth? Because despite what you might think, I do have an idea of the ‘potential ramifications of allowing such information into the public sphere’.”

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. He thought he had it. Kitty Turner. There was something about the indignant anger and blatant insolence that just screamed Kitty Turner.

The girl gathered herself, and said, “Sir, I believe Tom Riddle made a _veso nanm_ , a soul vessel, for himself.” Dumbledore’s eyes widened slightly. She was on the right track. “That’s what that diary was, wasn’t it, sir? And he probably more than one.” He paled. Hermione took this to mean she had been correct, or close enough. “He also did something to attach part of his soul to Harry’s, which is why Harry can speak parseltongue, but it’s somehow contained, so he’s not possessing Harry the same way he was Ginny. I’m guessing by whatever protection ritual his mother’s sacrifice enacted?”

“How did you come to those conclusions, Miss Granger?” The old professor sounded a bit faint. His mind fairly whirred as he tried to think of the implications of the girl’s statement. She was far too close to his own suspicions for comfort, which meant she knew a dangerous amount. Perhaps there was still time for damage control. He dipped into the girl’s thoughts again as she continued talking, looking for the mechanism by which she would “ensure everyone knew.”

“I found a book on vaudun last year when I was looking for information on petrification. It talked about the potential to use something like a _veso nanm_ ritual on yourself, a corruption of a corruption, the book called it. It was really talking about how to heal someone whose soul had been stolen, but it mentioned how a _Sosye nan Foli_ might use the ritual to make himself stronger, or, well… more difficult to kill? It wasn’t very specific, I’m afraid. The ritual it discussed to return a stolen soul could also be used to force the _sosye’s_ soul to leave his body and be reunited in the object he used as a _veso nanm_.”

“What book was this, Miss Granger?” He would make sure to remove it from the stacks posthaste.

“Anaiica Devieux’s _Moyens de la Lespri Yo_ , sir. The way Harry and Ginny were talking about the boy in the diary, it sounded like so much more than a memory. And then Ginny told me about the possession. She didn’t remember anything, which means it was a spirit possession, not just mental possession. That more or less confirmed my suspicions about the diary being a _veso nanm_ of some sort.

“But that didn’t explain how or why Moldyshorts was able to possess Professor Quirrell, or why that turned out so much more like a demonic possession, with the face and so on. Reading between the lines, the vessel is supposed to anchor the soul to the physical plane, and if a _sosye_ with a _veso nanm_ dies, the part of the soul that had been in his body would be drawn back into the vessel, and reunited, so that he could be revived. If Moldy only had one _veso nanm_ , he shouldn’t have been wandering around as a shade for the last twelve years. He should have been all of a piece in the diary, and when we destroyed it, he should have moved on. But if there was more than one… Well, it’s just a working hypothesis, but, sir, I think he might have been able to avoid being drawn to any one more than the others. So if he only had _two_ , he’d now be trapped in the other one, but if not, if there were more… he might still be out there making mischief, right? And if someone picks up another one… well, the same thing could happen to them as happened to Ginny, couldn’t it?”

Albus was almost relieved to hear the uncertainty and fear in the girl’s voice. If she was still worried about the fate of others who might stumble across Voldemort’s horcruxes, then perhaps he could use her. And it didn’t sound like she had been researching these things for her own sake. He should have known better, with a Gryffindor. He would, however, be much more relieved if he could figure out how she was planning to spread this information should he refuse to tell her whatever she wanted to know.

“And then there’s the issue of Harry. You told him at the end of last year that when Moldyshorts attacked him, he transferred some of his powers to Harry. Harry, of course, was more worried about what that said about his personality and whether he should be a Slytherin or not, but that’s not really important, is it, sir? I’ve asked around, and the only way for _that_ to happen, the power-transfer, is if Harry is his, Tom’s, magical heir, and Tom was really dead. And if _that_ was the reason Harry had Tom’s power, Tom and Quirrellmort wouldn’t have had access to it at all, which means Ginny shouldn’t have been able to get into the Chamber, since the ability to speak parseltongue and control the Basilisk was a purely magical gift. Of course, that’s all speculation, but it _fits._ So what I want to know, sir, is whatever _you_ know about what happened that night, and why, exactly, Moldyshorts wanted to kill Harry in the first place.”

“And how are you going to enforce your threat to let everyone know this information?” He had only seen in her mind that Fred and George Weasley would be the ones to carry out that part of the plan. The girl certainly had no doubts that they could do it, and if he knew his Gryffindor pranksters, they would already have set up enough intermediaries and failsafes that even he wouldn’t be able to stop the information from escaping his control. Much as he hated to admit it, the Weasley twins were much more devious than he was. He could always figure out how they had accomplished their pranks, but he hadn’t once been able to anticipate and prevent one.

“That’s for my partners to know and you and I to… probably never find out. They didn’t tell me, because they thought I’d give it away. If you don’t tell me what I want to know, so that I can tell my partners, they’ll ensure that the plan goes off without a hitch. Same thing goes for memory charms. If you try to make me forget this conversation, or anything to do with it, or they even think that you did, they’ll send out everything. I thought they were being a bit paranoid -”

Dumbledore cut her off. “And what is already known? You said you had told Harry most of it, but not all.”

“Harry, Ron, and Ginny know that there’s something, probably soul magic involving something like a _veso nanm_ tying Moldyshorts to the physical plane, and they know that there was probably more than one. Harry _should_ be able to put it all together, but I don’t think he will. He doesn’t want to think about what he might have in common with Tom, and I really don’t blame him for that. …My partners, they know everything I’ve told you.”

“The Weasley twins, I presume?”

Hermione’s eyes widened. She nodded.

Dumbledore considered the situation for a long moment. He could simply refuse to bow under her pressure, and let her tell the world. But he suspected that many Death Eaters who had avoided Azkaban did not know that their leader was not entirely dead. If they knew, they might bring him back before Dumbledore could properly prepare Harry to fight him. He could lie. Though he suspected that this very sharp little girl would find the truth eventually. Or he could just tell her. She might still be convinced not to tell Harry prematurely, if he could impress upon her the importance of secrecy. He rather thought he could – after all, if she was smart enough to figure all this out, she should be smart enough to know to keep her mouth shut. And she was asking for good reason, to help her friend, if she could. It would be useful to have one of Harry’s friends firmly in his camp, would it not?

“Very well then, my dear. You make a very convincing argument. However, after I tell you what I know, I beg you to let me make an argument of my own.” She nodded, still standing. “Your assessment is in accordance with my own. Tom Riddle made at least two horcruxes, or soul vessels, as you’ve been calling them, and exactly how many remains to be seen. However, there is another piece of the puzzle you do not know, which suggests that there is at least one more… and it is not a pleasant suggestion.

“In 1989, I was witness to a prophecy. ‘The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies. The Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not. And either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives.’ What would you make of that, my dear?”

“Well… the most obvious, straightforward interpretation would be something like: The one who was meant to defeat Moldyshorts would be born at the end of July, to parents who had defied Moldyshorts three times already… Moldyshorts would somehow mark him, probably Harry’s scar, right? But he has power old Moldy doesn’t… No idea what that might be. But that last part is the tricky bit, right? Either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives…” Hermione was quiet for a moment, turning the riddle over in her mind. “Without dissecting the grammar and phrasing too much, you think that Harry is a soul vessel for Voldemort. Whatever his mum did to save his life, that’s stopping the soul fragment from possessing Harry like he did Ginny. Right? So Voldemort tried to kill Harry to prevent the prophecy from taking effect, and made it self-fulfilling?”

Dumbledore nodded as he stared at the girl in utter amazement. Why on earth wasn’t she a Ravenclaw? _He_ hadn’t put it together that quickly, and he’d been thinking about the prophecy off and on for fifteen years. But then, perhaps if he’d known that Tom had made his horcruxes before he had heard the prophecy he would have seen it so clearly as well.

He cleared his throat. “Indeed. I believe that Tom Riddle’s soul was unstable after making too many horcruxes – the ritual I believe he used splits the soul in half, and if he made more than one, the part inhabiting his body would have become exponentially smaller and less stable, you see – so his soul was unstable and when his Killing Curse rebounded off of Lily’s protections, it resulted in a sliver of his soul attaching itself to Harry, as an unintentional horcrux.”

“So… how do we get rid of it, sir?”

“That I do not know. The prophecy suggests that in order to remove it, Harry must die.” The girl, who had relaxed somewhat while they discussed the prophecy, was suddenly furious again. “This is why I did not want to tell you, or him. It seems to be foretold that Harry must be a martyr for the cause of defeating Tom.”

“No, sir.”

“I’m sorry, child.”

“You’re wrong, headmaster.”

“I’m not. Sometimes we must find the strength to accept that the inevitable is much more terrible than we would ever have hoped.”

“There has to be a way out of this, sir. Give the damn prophecy more than five minutes’ thought from any kind of perspective that’s not completely defeatist, why don’t you? Just because the answer you found is the most obvious doesn’t mean it’s the only one, or the right one. Give me a minute!”

Dumbledore sat quietly and waited for the girl to accept what he knew was the truth. Harry would have to die to rid the world of Voldemort. It was simply the way things would have to be.

A moment later, she spoke. “‘Either must die at the hands of the other, for neither can live while the other survives’… they’ve both been _surviving_ just fine for the past eleven years, haven’t they? It could just mean that Voldemort can’t be fully revived without Harry’s death, or that Harry will never be free of Voldemort and therefore able to life a full and happy life without having to look over his shoulder all the time for the madman, and that Voldemort will always have to be on the lookout for Harry, because Harry’s going to be after him for killing his parents. If you want to get really obscure about it, there could be a third person, even, this ‘other,’ who conditionally threatens both of their lives as long as _he_ survives.”

“Miss Granger,” Dumbledore began, but Hermione cut him off.

“No. I will not let my first and best friend go quietly into the night on the say-so of some ridiculous prophetic nonsense. I won’t let you set him up to be killed, sir, just because you think that’s how it’s got to be. It’s _not going to happen like that_. I know it’s possible to move souls from one vessel to another. Harry’s mum’s protections are keeping that last horcrux from fully integrating with Harry’s soul, so there’s still a chance to detach it. So fucking do it. Don’t wait until it’s too late and lock yourself and Harry into the worst possible interpretation of that fucking prophecy.” There were tears in her eyes.

“Miss Granger, just because you want something to come to pass a certain way, does not mean that it can and will happen that way.” Dumbledore was sitting calmly, his fingers steepled, clearly having gone through this argument before, confident that he knew what he must do.

Hermione was standing again, hands on her hips. “Just because you’re afraid something won’t work, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try.”

“The laws of magic are not as flexible as you seem to think.” This was the trouble with clever muggleborn witches. They never wanted to accept that some rules could not be broken. “A prophecy always comes true, Miss Granger.”

“But, sir, it doesn’t have to come true the way _you_ expect it to, does it? Isn’t that how it always went in the old stories? Look at Oedipus, sir. Prophecies… They’re always self-fulfilling or lateral thinking puzzles. Find a way to move the horcrux out of Harry. Use it to draw the other soul fragments together like Devieux talks about. Kill them. If Voldemort gets a body back before you manage it, kill that too. Problem solved. Don’t let some mad old prophecy stop you fighting. If they always come true, it will come true, no matter what you do. So it can’t hurt to try, right?” The girl was crying, now. Albus always felt vaguely uncomfortable when confronted with crying witches.

“But it can, my dear. The prophecy represents a crossing-point in time. It predicts a moment coming to pass, where Tom could be defeated, by one who was born as the seventh month dies and was marked by Voldemort as his equal. But it also suggests that Tom might kill the one who has the power to defeat him. If that is so, we must do everything in our power to make sure that Harry is prepared for his task. I’m afraid, my dear, that my birthday is not in July,” he added with a small, sad smile.

“That’s insane, sir. You’re insane. Who came up with this prophecy anyway? How much interpretation goes into speaking a prophecy? How straightforward do you have to be in interpreting its words?

“How do you know it wasn’t September? That used to be the ‘seventh month’. Or we could use the witches’ new year. What’s seven months from Samhain? May? And that’s only if your prophet meant a _solar_ month. But fine, say it was July. If the pronouns were really supposed to be nonspecific, and ‘he’ was used as a default pronoun _as it commonly is in English_ , or if you’re just _remembering_ it wrong because you’re a hundred years old and more than a little sexist, Mr. You’re-just-a-girl, it could refer to Lily Potter! And be over and done with! She’s the one who managed to set some kind of protection on her son that completely _destroyed_ the Dark Lord’s body _and_ his power base _and_ gave you ten years to try to finish him off, and you didn’t even try! ‘The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches…’ She didn’t have the power to destroy him until she became a mother, since it had something to do with the protections on her son. ‘Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies.’ Lily’s parents were muggles, yes? I imagine they defied Voldemort’s ideals more than three times, supporting their daughter the muggleborn witch, or it could mean muggles in general. Fuck, I’m sure _I’ve_ defied _you_ at least three times in this _conversation_! And even if her birthday wasn’t in July, she still would not have been “born” to the power to defeat him until after Harry was born, since the power to vanquish him was in the protections she placed on her son. Or it could even be _borne_ , as in ‘brought to’. Someone brought before another group who had “defied” him three times, at the end of July. Did she join your vigilantes in July? Or May? Or September? Honestly! ‘The Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not.’ To mark doesn’t _have_ to be a physical mark. Aside from the dubious pronouns, that could be anyone who stood face to face against Voldemort and who he acknowledged as his equal. And power he knows not? He certainly wasn’t expecting whatever the hell she did to blow him up. Magic is infinite, shaped only by human will and imagination! I can’t even _imagine_ all the ‘powers’ a person might not know! ‘And either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives.’ Either Lily or Moldy was going to die, because they had an irreconcilable difference. Tom was determined to kill her son, and Lily was determined to save him. So Moldy managed to kill Lily, but she also managed to vanquish him with whatever ‘power he knew not’. And _now_ we _know_ how to kill him, _because of her sacrifice_. AND THERE’S NO REASON WE SHOULDN’T TRY! _HAVE YOU NO COMMON SENSE AT ALL?_ ”

Hermione was breathing heavily and shouting rather shrilly by the end of her rant, and Dumbledore (as well as every portrait on the walls) was staring at her as though he had never seen anything quite like her before in his life, or rather, as though he had just seen Kitty Turner rise from the grave. His little sister Ariana, whose portrait sat at the corner of his desk, was giggling at the look on his face. “Have you no common sense, brother?” was one of her favorite phrases. He didn’t think the girl was correct, of course. But he did have to acknowledge the possibility that perhaps Harry didn’t have to die.

“Miss Granger, please sit down.” She did so, still glaring mutinously at him. “I will try.”

The girl was now blushing furiously, having apparently realized that she was shouting at one of the most powerful, most respected wizards in the world for failing to think things through. “Try what? Sir,” she added, belatedly.

“I will try to find a way to remove the horcrux from Harry Potter. I will try to find a way to interpret this prophecy that does not require his death or allow Tom to return to full strength. However, in exchange, I need you to do something for me.”

“What?” The girl sounded suspicious of his sudden about-face.

“I need you to stop the spread of this information. Swear the Weasley twins to secrecy. I will talk to Harry, Ron, and Ginny, and ask them not to spread their knowledge of Tom to anyone else. If you put it together, I’m sure that the former Death Eaters, who, after all, are much more familiar with Black magic than you, could do it. We cannot allow them to know, lest they make plans to bring their leader back to full strength. I must ask you not even to tell Harry and Ron. They do not need to know, and I fear it would only put more pressure on Harry either way. Plus, of course, the more people who know, the more likely it is that the information will be leaked. And finally I must ask you not to pursue the horcrux issue yourself. The dark arts corrupt, and the Black arts corrupt absolutely. Soul magic is a dangerous thing, and I had thought that all references to it had been removed from our library here…”

“You _censor_ our _library_?” Hermione sounded almost more offended about that than she had over the idea that Harry must be a martyr for the side of Light.

“Where do you think Tom learned about horcruxes in the first place? He was muggle-raised, you know. It’s not as though he had the Black family library at his disposal.”

“I suppose…” Hermione thought, actually, that as the Heir of Slytherin, he had probably had the _Slytherin_ family library, if such a thing existed, but didn’t say anything.

“So will you help me stop Voldemort returning as long as we can?”

“Destroy his horcruxes, and we could stop him returning ever.”

“I will do my best, child.”

“Then I will do what I can. I mean, I can’t really control who Harry and Ginny have already talked to. But I’ll stop the twins sending out what we already knew.”

“That’s all I ask, my dear.”

Hermione rose and left the office without another word.

…

The twins intercepted Hermione in front of the gargoyle which guarded Dumbledore’s office.

“What are you two doing here? This wasn’t the plan!”

“We’re skiving off,”

“History of Magic.”

“Come on,”

“We can talk,”

“In secrecy,”

“Follow us!”

They led her to a large mirror on the fourth floor and one pulled Hermione into an alcove as the other fished a tatty piece of parchment from his robe pocket and whispered “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good!”

A moment later, he added, “Coast is clear, Fred. Two-minute window.”

“Right, then, come on.” Fred led the way to the mirror, and when they were all standing in front of it, started making faces at his reflection until it gave in and laughed, beckoning for the three of them to step through what was apparently _not_ the glass. When they had safely reached the other side, illusion-Fred gave them a jaunty wave, and vanished.

George shoved his parchment back into his pocket, and began casting secrecy charms as Fred explained that even though there were no listening-wards down here, you really couldn’t be too careful.

“Welcome, our delightful little Firecracker, to the secret laboratory of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes!”

“Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes?”

“Yes, well, don’t tell anyone, but we’re thinking of opening a shop someday, when we’re finally out of here. This is where we do product testing and development.”

“It _used_ to be a passage out of the school, led straight into Hogsmeade, but then _someone_ thought it’d be a good idea to try out that Condensed Concussive Concoction last year, and collapsed the ceiling about a mile that way,” George pointed down the tunnel.

“Don’t listen to him, it was his idea, and his fault that it was ten times stronger than it should have been. So. What did old Dumbles have to say?” asked Fred.

Hermione was too busy looking around herself in amazement to really pay attention to the boys. They had managed, somehow, to find and conceal all of the equipment needed for what looked like a fully functional experimental potions lab, as well as a well-stocked enchanters’ bench. Piles of books and scrolls covered the three long tables they’d set up along the center of the tunnel, and stacks of open crates, turned on their sides, formed make-shift shelves for a vast array of completed and half-completed projects.

“This is amazing! How on Earth do you have time for all this?”

“Well,”

“It’s fairly easy, you know,”

“If you do the bare minimum in class,”

“And everyone expects you to,”

“Just be amusing on occasion.”

“If we’re loud enough,”

“Every so often,”

“They’ll just assume,”

“We’re around,”

“The rest of the time.”

The boys exchanged an evil grin, and Hermione rolled her eyes. “Stop that. You’re giving me a headache.”

One of the twins – Hermione had lost track of which, again – laughed. “You can admire our handiwork later. What did our Fearless Leader have to say?”

“It’s worse than we thought. Let’s sit.” The twins obligingly shoved a couple of empty crates together and transfigured them into a couch. Hermione was suitably impressed. When they were finished, she continued. “I was right about the soul vessel thing. Dumbledore called them horcruxes. I don’t think we’ll be able to get any information on them, though. He’s been censoring the library, removing the books on soul magic.”

“Is it just me, George, or is our little Firecracker really upset that teenage student wizards aren’t allowed access to instruction manuals for the darkest arts?”

“No, Fred, I do believe you are correct.”

“It’s not that I think we should have the grimoires, or anything, I just think that we should be allowed to know _of_ all kinds of magic, even the worst kinds. I mean, I think it’s better that we know about the horcrux situation, don’t you? If Dumbledore had found that last book, I never would have made the connection. But that’s not the point. I was close enough on the fact that there were soul vessels, more than one. He confirmed that. And he confirmed that he thinks Harry is another. Since Harry hasn’t said anything about Moldyshorts visiting him at his Aunt’s house over the summer, I think we can assume that there is at least one more, plus Harry. I think I convinced Dumbledore that he should try to come up with a way to remove the one that’s attached to Harry.”

“Why wouldn’t he?” Interrupted the nearer twin.

“Well, there was a prophecy.” The boys gasped. Hermione ignored this. “Apparently it goes like this: ‘The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies. The Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not. And either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives.’

“Dumbledore interpreted it as meaning that Harry, who was born at the end of July to parents who fought Voldemort three times, and was marked with the lightning-bolt scar, will have some kind of power to destroy Voldemort. And he thinks that Harry is going to have to die to do it, because he’s an accidental horcrux.” Hermione broke off, on the edge of tears, and the boys enveloped her in a hug. One of them mumbled something about Dumbledore being a barmy old bat, and the other responded with a crack about prophecies being fulfilled by meddling old fools.

Eventually they sat back again. “I think I convinced him to try for a different interpretation. He said he’d try to find a way to remove the horcrux from Harry, if I would stop the spread of information. I said I would. It would… It would give him a fair chance. Even if he still has to try to kill Voldemort, at least he wouldn’t be _expected_ to die in the end. So we should stop whatever you set up to send out the information.”

“Ah, about that…”

“Do you want to tell her or shall I?” They were grinning again.

“I’ll do it. You see, Firecracker, sometimes, the best plan is simply to bluff and rely on your reputation to carry you through.”

“We didn’t have to do anything but convince you that we could do something, and couldn’t tell you what. Obviously Dumbledore believed in us, and therefore you. There’s nothing to undo.”

Hermione blinked at them for a long moment. “Why weren’t you two in Slytherin?”

They bowed ridiculously, still seated.

“We’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It’s true, we may be sneaky,

“Manipulative,”

“Devious bastards,”

“But we also have a penchant for mischief,”

“Chaotic elements, you might say,”

“And had no ambition,”

“When we were eleven.”

“Seriously, though, the Hat thought we would destroy the house. It told Fred that our housemates would have to be lion-hearted to deal with us.”

“And the first thing it said to George was, ‘Merlin’s pants, there’s two of them!’”

The boys cracked up, pathologically incapable of maintaining an air of seriousness.

“Right, so what do we do now?”

“Well,” Fred said slowly, “I think the best thing might be to follow Security Protocol Alpha. What do you think, George?”

“You may be right. I mean, there’s really no guarantee that Dumbledore won’t still try to memory charm us all the next time he sees us. If you really want to keep this between us, we should have a back-up.”

“What’s Security Protocol Alpha?”

“The most paranoid of security measures.”

“Basically, one of us writes down everything we know. The writer tells the other, the hider, to hide the information somewhere safe, and then we work together to add something to the clue sheet, to let us find the information again if we should need it back.”

“The writer puts down the circumstances to go find the information, and the hider puts a clue that can be used to find the hiding spot. We wait a few hours and obliviate each other of all pertinent information, then of the previous fifteen minutes or so, so that we don’t remember obliviating each other, or what the information was, in case we saw it while we were looking to obliviate it.”

“That actually works?”

“Sure it does. I’ve got the clue sheet here.” One of the boys pulled a neatly folded square of parchment from his pocket and spread it in front of her.

“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.” He jabbed the parchment with his wand, and spidery lines of ink began to bleed out from the point he had touched, quickly outlining what seemed to be the corridors of Hogwarts, filled with tiny labeled dots. He drew a pentagram on it with the tip of his wand, first the star, then the circle. As he completed the circle, the image changed, labeling the portraits and their status, rather than the students. He did it again, and a list of potential prank ideas appeared. A third time, and the list of pranks, which started with “Snape, breakfast bather” was replaced with a list of extremely cryptic hints, such as “Should all seem lost and the Guardians loom, find shelter among those who serve their friends,” and “If a quick exit is needed, the means are to be found in the keeping of the one who would seek.”

Hermione was staring at the parchment in amazement. “Is that a map?” Hogwarts was supposed to be unplottable!

“Yes. Not the original, of course. We’ve made a few improvements, such as our hidden lists, and expanded it a bit, but we really just added on to the original Marauders’ Mapping Marks and it still ties into the school wards in the same way. That’s not important, though. Do you want to go through with the security protocol, or not?”

“Brilliant! Can you… Oh, fine, I suppose. We should only hide away a copy of the information and the fact that we’ve hidden it. You’ve done this before, and it works?”

“Of course. What do you take us for? Look. The first one here, we think is some kind of blackmail on our parents. They’re the guardians. And the ones who serve are the house elves. So we’ve hidden the information in the kitchens somewhere. And we probably have to say something about ‘friends’ to get whatever it is.”

“Don’t give us that look, if we knew exactly what it was, we wouldn’t have needed to hide it, would we?”

“Alright, alright. Let’s do it, then. I’ll write everything down, and then you can hide it and obliviate me. Right?”

The twins nodded. Hermione copied out the information as quickly as she could while leaving it legible. One of the boys vanished with the map back into the school to hide it, and the other turned to Hermione.

“Ready, Firecracker?”

“Yes, I think so. Do it. And be careful, please.”

“What do you take me for? Right, then. _Obliviate!”_ the boy pointed his wand at the girl’s temple with a sharp flick, and sank into her memories, calling up and plucking out everything that had happened after she left the Headmaster’s office. He allowed them to dissipate into the air, and put her in a light trance state to follow him out of the secret lab space. He returned her to an alcove in the Headmaster’s corridor, shoved a note in her pocket, and, looking around quickly to make sure that no one was watching, pulled the time turner from her robes, clicking it back once. She vanished into the past, as he had seen her appear on the Map an hour before. Time travel was so freaking cool.

…

Hermione came to her senses in an alcove near the Headmaster’s office, and did a quick _tempus_ charm. It was only half three. She was certain she had been speaking to Dumbledore at half three. She tucked her wand back into her pocket, and noticed the crinkle of spare parchment. That was odd. She didn’t keep spare parchment in her pockets. She fished out the note:

_Dear Firecracker,_

_Your meeting with Our Fearless Leader went well. We (and you) decided that it would be best to take certain security measures, which involved obliviating you of everything that happened after you left his office. Trust us when we say that your past-self did consent to this. I’m not a good enough legilimens to do it without your consent. You’re missing about 45 minutes, so I sent you back an hour. Seemed fair and should close the loop. But you shouldn’t stick around, because you’ll be headed down the stairs in another fifteen minutes, and we know how you hate to break the rules. Just to be safe, we should keep contact to a minimum we’ll keep your secrets to ourselves, on our honor. Ta,_

_Your Troublemakers_

_PS, bring us this note if you ever think you may have forgotten why we did what we did. Make a habit of looking at something that reminds you of it, and if it ever doesn’t make sense, find us. Future Fred: Security level Alpha-plus, key-phrase = there and back again._

It was, she thought, a very odd note. She supposed it was some kind of back-up, in case someone obliviated her of her knowledge of the horcruxes and the prophecy. She was almost sure it wouldn’t be necessary, but just in case, she wrote a note to herself on the back of the parchment and tucked it into her day-planner: Q: Why did TMR try to kill HJP? A: To avoid going to the other side. If the Riddle doesn’t make sense, ask the Tricksters about the Hobbit.


	25. Interlude: Conversations with Dumbledore - The Second Confrontation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This also fits in to the prologue chapter 'Highlights of Hermione's Third Year'.

###  The Second Confrontation

“Miss Granger. A pleasure as always.” Dumbledore was in the Gryffindor Common Room. No one else was. It was nearly two in the morning, and the carriages left for Hogsmeade at nine. But Hermione had just handed in her Time Turner, and hadn’t yet managed to re-adjust her sleep schedule, so she had stayed in the library until curfew, and was just now beginning her packing, starting with the massive drifts of parchment that had accumulated in her usual study space over the course of the past several months.

“My compliments on your Avoidance Charms.” She had charmed the table so that she could have some privacy, and also so that she could safely leave relatively unimportant things unattended.

“Thank you, sir. Erm…”

“Why am I here, Miss Granger?”

“Yes, sir.” Hermione had not spoken to the Headmaster since their conversation at the beginning of the year. She had kept her end of the bargain, and she could only hope he was keeping his.

“Mr. Potter came to visit me today. He said that you had suggested that he should ask me how long he absolutely needed to stay with the Dursleys, to maintain the blood wards. He was almost _confrontational_ about it.”

“And? What did you tell him, sir?”

“He must stay for a minimum of one lunar month, under the same roof as at least one other relative who is a second-degree blood relative. The span increases for each degree of relatedness, so if he were to stay with his cousin alone, it would be two lunar months. You do not seem surprised.”

“Well, you didn’t make him go back after he blew up his aunt last summer. If he doesn’t go back, does the ward break, or burn him out?”

The old man nodded. “It simply breaks. I perceive you used that Time Turner far more than the recommended number of hours. Tell me, who gave you a pass to the restricted section?”

“Well, sir,” she responded with a small smile, “It seemed a waste to let all the potential extra hours fly by. I’m not sorry. I’d have lost it anyway for the incidents surrounding the Third Annual End of Year Adventure, you know. And by the end of the year, almost every instructor except Professor Snape gave me a pass to the restricted section. But Professor McGonagall gave me the first one.”

Dumbledore frowned. He would have to have a word with the staff about allowing third-years into the Restricted Section. “I would not have asked you to take such a risk if it hadn’t been for the greater good, keeping an innocent man out of prison.”

Hermione laughed at that. It was a harsh sound. Albus wondered when the girl had become so bitter. “For the Greater Good? Didn’t you _defeat_ Grindelwald?” Hermione thought that Dumbledore looked mildly surprised. “You may have heard, I do read outside of what Binns assigns,” she added reproachfully. “That was his slogan, was it not? You could have gotten Black a trial, you know, if you’re so worried about innocent men in prison. Or did individual justice not align with the Greater Good in that instance?”

“Miss Granger.”

Hermione adjusted to a more reproachful tone. “He’s Harry’s godfather, Headmaster. Harry should have been with him, and not those awful, abusive muggles he calls his family, thanks to you.”

“Surely it’s not that bad. The boy was disappointed to return to them, yes, but I hardly think a few chores –”

“It’s not a few chores,” Hermione interrupted mildly. She hoped that stating the truth calmly would make more of an impression than her anger. “They make him work sixteen hours a day at tasks that are impossible to complete, and punish him when he fails. They lock away his school supplies and textbooks at the beginning of each summer. It’s a minor miracle he’s managed to get through the summer homework so far. Harry has had enough bones broken and dealt with enough pain that he was able to safely get to the ground after a bludger completely _destroyed_ his right humerus last year, before that idiot Lockhart de-boned it. He so regularly goes without food over the summer that it takes him almost until Halloween every year to eat what anyone else would consider a normal portion at any meal. He thinks so little of his own life that he has, every single year, rushed headlong into life-threatening danger without even considering asking for help. He recognizes that’s dangerous for me and Ron, and sometimes he’ll try to make us stay back, but he never would, himself. Sometimes I think he has a death wish.” She was working hard now, to maintain her deliberately light and conversational tone.

“A year ago, on the train, he told me that the muggles he lives with would be disappointed in him, because he had so many chances to die, and didn’t manage it. He distrusts adults so much that I had to argue with him for hours to get him to even ask you if he could break the blood wards and stay _here_ from now on instead of going back to them, and clearly he didn’t tell you about the extent of the abuse, even so. I don’t think you’ve done right by him, per se, but you’re better than them. And he has the worst case of survivor’s guilt I’ve ever seen, because the whole damn Wizarding world won’t shut up about the Boy Who Lived.” Hermione quickly flipped through a stack of parchment, and folded an essay-scroll into the pile before stashing it in her trunk.

“He will never tell you any of this, because as much as he likes you and respects you, you’re still an adult, and inherently untrustworthy, in his eyes. He’d be really angry at me, actually, if he found out I said anything. He never really comes out and says it directly. I only know because I pay attention to the little things. Ron doesn’t. Harry loves Ron’s family, but he’s incredibly envious of them, as well, and Ron doesn’t see it. But anyway, I think you need to know.” She met his eyes for the first time since she had started speaking. “I don’t know if you’re making him go back out of ignorance or because you truly think that a martyr-hero is necessary for a better world, but I don’t think it’s fair to let you tell yourself that Harry’s childhood hasn’t been every bit as terrible as it truly has been.”

“You have become a hard young woman, Miss Granger.” Dumbledore looked a bit saddened by that, if not by her recounting of the abuse Harry had endured.

“It’s been a long year, sir, and I’m tired. What did you want?”

“Oh, I simply wanted to know exactly what you told young Harry.”

“Nothing that violates our agreement,” she snapped.

“Humor me.”

“Oh, let’s see.” Hermione stopped packing for the first time since Dumbledore had arrived. “I told him that the protection his mum gave him was only a one-time thing, trading her life for his. I didn’t tell him the details, but I suppose you’d tell me if I’m on the right track?” Dumbledore nodded. “I found the descriptions in Luciano Medici’s Compendium of Sacrificial Arts. I knew it had to be in the library, somewhere. Lily Potter was a muggleborn, after all. It’s not like she grew up with the Potter Family Library. A variation on the Gift of Iphigenia which is a Blood Sacrifice and an Intercession of Demeter which is a Soul-Protection Ritual. Opposite-sex parent-child pair, where the parent sacrifices herself willingly for the child, marking him with her blood, and dies before the blood is dry. The mother’s soul is bound to the child’s until the child is claimed by Death, at which time the mother’s soul is taken in place of the child’s. It just so happens that in Harry’s case, his mother died only moments before he did. I couldn’t find any of the instructions for either ritual, mind, just the descriptions, so that’s largely a guess.”

The headmaster nodded gravely. “We do believe it was a combination of those two rituals.”

“Good. I’m working on a theory, then, that the “accidental Horcrux” is a function of the remnants of the ritual settling into place, actually. Morgana Peverell’s description of the Intercession of Demeter says that the ritual takes at least an hour to fully set. If Lily’s soul moved on almost immediately after the ritual began, before the blood dried, and a fragment of Tom’s was still in the area, it might have gotten bound up with Harry that way, rather than as a horcrux. I mean, it’s got to be more difficult than that to make a proper horcrux, right? The Parseltongue crossover might be due to the fact that the ritual was partially disrupted.” Hermione looked speculative, as though this was all a distant theoretical problem. It worried Dumbledore.

“Tell me, how would you test your theory that Harry is protected now by a fragment of Tom’s soul?” There was a twinkle in the old man’s eyes.

Hermione sighed. “Do you want me to say try to kill him? You could. Make sure to use an A-K, because it was the Gift of Iphigenia that would have healed him from a deathly injury, and I’m sure _that’s_ long since expired. Vernon Dursley beats him, you know. But if you wanted to be sure, and not risk it, you’d have to do a Major Soul Analytic, and you really _can’t_ until his soul has reached maturity. Maybe in a couple years. He’s grown up faster than I think you know. But there’s a chance that by that time, the soul fragment will be entirely bonded to Harry’s soul, if there is an ongoing crossover, or that Voldemort’s shade will get a body back. You should have put _Harry_ on a Time Turner for the past ten months, really, helped him grow up as fast as possible.”

“Perhaps. But is it not better for one to live one’s life as fully as possible while one can? We have tried to preserve his innocence as far as possible. What else did you tell him?”

“What good is that, preserving innocence? I thought you wanted a hero, not a sacrificial lamb. I told him that there was something funny about the house exploding, and that that had to be another ward or something, because the killing curse doesn’t explode. I’m standing by my “Lily as the chosen one” interpretation of that prophecy. She lured old Moldy in. She knew there wouldn’t be much time. She had set wards around Harry’s crib to stop the explosion hurting him, and rigged a muggle bomb or something to take out Voldemort’s body while he was too distracted by Harry not dying to react and protect himself. That was always the trouble, right? No one could get a good shot in? Her death and Harry’s living through what Moldy thought was a moment of triumph, was really just the distraction.

“So I told Harry that his mum’s protection was a one-time thing. Maybe that will help curb his death-wish. I speculated that burning Quirrell might have had something to do with his scar and whatever made the house explode, if it wasn’t a muggle bomb. Or it could have been a function of the blood wards you put on him and the fact that Quirrell was surviving on unicorn blood. I imagine the ward would have considered him hostile and tried to eliminate him on contact, given his inherently damned state. I still haven’t figured that one out for sure though. And I told him that you anchored those wards directly to Harry’s blood, building on the connection between himself and his mother, meaning her kin, which is why he’s had to go back to the Dursleys – so they don’t break or burn him out. What did you tell him?”

“That love is the power the Dark Lord knows not, and that it was his mother’s love that saved him.” Dumbledore smiled broadly, but his face fell as Hermione snorted.

“Well, I suppose that’s accurate enough, if you squint at it a bit. Mite sparse on the details. I think it could have been C-4. Nobody expects wizards to use muggle weapons, but Lily was a smart girl, right? But you didn’t tell him about the prophecy? When are you going to tell him everything?” The girl was glaring at him again.

“I should have done it this year, I know, but I couldn’t bring myself to drop the weight of the world on his young shoulders. He’s just a boy, after all.” Albus did his best to look saintly and innocent, but he didn’t think the girl bought it, any more than Minerva would have.

“Sir,” she said sternly, “Harry Potter has never been _just a boy_. You all but made sure of that when you placed him with the Dursleys. He never had a childhood, he can’t be your innocent lamb to send to the slaughter. He might shape up to be your martyr hero, but I still don’t think he needs to be. If you think he needs to die, and you’re not ever going to tell him, you might as well shoot a Killing Curse at him yourself, and get it out of the way.”

“You don’t mean that.” The old man was taken aback by the callousness with which the girl spoke. She had to be, what? Technically almost sixteen? A little over? He would have to enquire with the Unspeakables.

“Well, sir, I certainly don’t _want_ my best friend to die. He’s like the little brother I never had. I want you to do everything you can to save him. I _want_ you to give him a time turner and make him study politics and history until his soul is old enough to do the Major Analytic! I _want_ you to teach him to fight back against the darkness in the world, not just let it overwhelm him. I want _you_ to fight back against this damned prophecy, and let it find its own way of coming true within the bounds of your actions, rather than matching your actions to what you _think_ is bound to happen. And I want you to tell him the truth, or at least return the Black Magic grimoires to the library – don’t even pretend you didn’t keep them – so I can research whatever’s happened to him myself. Because it seems an awful lot like I’m the only person he’s got in his corner right now.” The girl was glaring at him. Dumbledore was forcibly reminded of the beginning of the year, so long ago.

“I will do no such thing, Miss Granger. And I assure you, we are all very much in young Harry’s corner, no matter what you may think.”

She scoffed, and turned back to her table, sorting and tidying papers. “I think, Headmaster,” she said without looking at him, “That you do a really poor job of protecting the people you’re sworn to protect. And you’re not doing much better when it comes to preparing Harry to save the world, even though you think he’s going to have to try, and he’s not destined to _succeed._ ”

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Dumbledore said softly, and disillusioned himself before leaving the Gryffindor Common Room. The girl looked around when she heard the Portrait open, but didn’t say anything.


	26. Part 2: Breakfast and Potions

2 September 1940

Hermione’s _evigilar_ charm buzzed at six-thirty, awakening her from a dream of watching Harry and Ron play Quidditch, of all things. She felt a pang of loss, which she quickly stifled. It was no good, she told herself sternly, crying oneself to sleep and moping about something she could never get back. She moved through her morning routine on autopilot, still trying to convince herself that she should stop thinking about the past and focus on the day ahead of her.

She reached the Great Hall just before seven and stole the schedule Tom had tucked under the edge of his plate. None of the other fourth-year Slytherins had arrived yet.

“Morning, Tom. Sleep well?”

“No,” he mumbled. “I think I’m sick.”

“Oh?”

“I’m sure it’s nothing. I took some pepper-up already.” He sounded tired, regardless.

Hermione let him eat his eggs in peace for a moment while she examined their schedule. “Tom?”

“Yes, Hermione?”

“Aren’t we scheduled to take runes _and_ divination?”

“Yes. Why?”

“How does this schedule work, then? They’re at the same time.”

“The two of us, and the five others in our year who are signed up for both classes, have to meet with Shylock and McKinnon to discuss which class we’ll be going to on which days. They do the same thing for Arithmancy and Care of Magical Creatures.”

“So we _miss_ half the class periods?” Hermione asked, somewhat angrily.

“They usually schedule it so that we do practicals in each class every other day. Last year Divination practicals were on Tuesdays, and Runework on Thursdays. We have to do the reading and keep up with the theory on our own time.”

Hermione didn’t respond. Tom finally looked up from his breakfast. Hermione looked somewhat stunned.

“Come on, Hermione. You aren’t honestly going to tell me that you like sitting through theory lectures and listening to idiots ask stupid questions.”

“Well, no… but…”

“But what?”

Hermione pushed her plate aside and let her head fall to the table. “Why do they always think that the best way to solve their problems is with magic?” she mumbled.

Tom said nothing.

After a minute, Hermione sat up again. “I’ll tell you later.”

He nodded, correctly interpreting this as code for “something about the future that is relatively harmless and I’d like to complain about, but can’t because there are people around.”

Hermione returned to the schedule. “Is it just me, or do we seem to have an awful lot of hours scheduled?”

“Each of the professors teaches seven hours per week per house third year and up, between lab sections and lectures and whatnot. Remember I said our class is really small?” Hermione nodded. “The profs have combined all houses for our year, so we have four hours each for potions, charms, transfiguration, herbology, history, astronomy, divination or runes, arithmancy or creatures, and… what am I forgetting?” he had been ticking classes off on his fingers. “I know there’s one more…”

“Defense?”

“Ah, yes, of course. Defense makes nine. 36 hours total. 40, technically, if you do two electives simultaneously, though the last four hours are classified as independent study. Normally it’s less than that, because they split the practical sessions if they get bigger than twenty-five students. Professors can only keep an eye on so much, after all.”

“I see.” Hermione did not think it was fair at all, that they should get more class hours than the other years, but she wasn’t about to complain. “So we’ve mostly two hour blocks, then. Potions, history, then electives after lunch?”

Tom nodded. “And a lunch meeting with the elective professors to get that sorted. It’s a standing thing. _And_ Astronomy Practical from nine to eleven tonight. But we’re done at three on Friday, and we get the first slot on Tuesday and Thursday free, since we have the late Monday.”

Hermione groaned. Ten-hour Mondays were pushing it, even for her, plus she truly _needed_ to put real wards on her room, before the other Slytherins got serious about testing her makeshift defenses. At least she would have a bit of time on Tuesday and Thursday to sort out her extra-curriculars.

Slytherin students had been trickling to the table over the course of their conversation, but no one had yet attempted to talk to either one of them. The post arrived, drawing Hermione’s attention to the time: 7:45, and there were no more than a dozen Slytherins present.

“Where is everyone?”

“Black, Malfoy, and Lestrange gave up on breakfast in the middle of last year. They go straight to class, now. Most of the House does. The first-years have a pre-class meeting with the fifth-year prefects, so Bellatrix would be with them.” He paused. “The only people who should be here and aren’t are Avery and Nott.”

“Where are Avery and Nott?” Hermione asked suspiciously.

“I imagine they’re still in their bathroom,” said Tom, straight-faced.

“Why would they be in the bathroom?”

“Ah, well… they’re _together_ , right?” Tom smirked. “And they’re still only third-years, so they can’t get any time alone together anywhere else. So they make a habit of meeting up in their bathroom at night, when they think everyone else is asleep.”

“How would you know?” Hermione had a sudden vision of Tom lurking near the underclassmen’s bathrooms.

“Trent was complaining about it all last term. Anyway, I felt like crap and couldn’t sleep, and then I realized that the third-years have Transfiguration first. So I arranged to delay them just long enough to interrupt Dumbledore’s ‘inspiring’ back-to-school speech. Just a little something to ruin his Monday. Speaking of class, we should head to the potions lab.”

Hermione shook her head as they stood and left the Hall. “So you’re just using Avery and Nott to get back at Dumbledore?”

“Well, it will also funny if they try to explain why they were _both_ trapped in the bathroom. But yes.”

“ _Why?_ ”

“Do you not recall yesterday morning? He’s a bigger asshole than I am. Do you have the Potions Manual?”

“Yes, of course, but I need to grab my kit and cauldron. Did you bring the Compendium Historica?”

“No, but it doesn’t matter. Binns never lectures on the first day, and the text is only for homework.”

They ducked quickly back into the Slytherin dorms for Hermione’s cauldron and reached the Potions Lab just before Slughorn.

…

As Tom had feared, there were seven stations set up for three students each, rendering his plan to work alone moot. Even worse luck, Alethea Malfoy was working with the other Ravenclaws, and they were stuck with Augusta “call me Aggie” Bones, who was a Gryffindor. As Aggie explained, Melina Sparks had set her cap at Ravenclaw Terrence, and had invited him to work with the other Gryffindors, upsetting their numbers and leaving her out in the cold with the two latecomers.

Slughorn informed the class that they would be working on several long-term projects over the course of the semester. They would start on Polyjuice, and once it was underway, move on to the Draught of Tennyson, Felix Felicis, Tincture of Mockwood, and the Mandrake Restorative, which needed to ferment over Break. Next term they would focus on Veritasserum, Chanticleer’s Reversall, and the Nightmares of Lethe.

Hermione was pleased to be starting with something she was already familiar with, and that they would also be making a Mandrake Restorative, just in case. Tom and Aggie were both disappointed, because, they immediately realized, they would have to work with the same lab partners all year.

Slughorn finished outlining the course of the semester, and dismissed them to research their first project, to be started on Wednesday. He bustled out of the classroom himself immediately. Hermione thought this was ridiculous, as they still had an hour and a half during which they could get started _today_ , which, she suspected, would put them in a much better place timing-wise for the remainder of the semester. She began preparing the first set of ingredients as the other students filtered out.


	27. Part 2: Wherein Tom uses the word 'cute'

2 September 1940

“Hermione,” asked Augusta, “What are you doing?” Tom said nothing, but was staring at her with a vaguely irritated look on his face.

“Do you know when the full moon is this month?”

“Tonight’s the dark of the moon, so two weeks from today,” Tom answered. “Why?”

Hermione was unpacking her potions kit, and prodding Tom to prepare his things as well.

“Right. It takes at least two full weeks to bring Polyjuice to the point where you add the lacewings, and the lacewings have to be added fresh, within three days of being gathered, and can only be plucked two days on either side of the full moon, which is when they’re active. So if we start _now_ ,” she explained, “we’ll have a bit of a margin of error, and could maybe go on the weekend, if we don’t use it. If we wait until Wednesday, we’ll have to do everything absolutely perfectly in order to add the lacewings by the end of class on the 18th. Then we’ll have a month to pickle the boomslang skin and start the Draught of Tennyson while it simmers. I’ll have to look up that one and figure out the best way to go about the timing, but either way, if we wait until Wednesday to start and mess up the timing even a little bit, or need to make any corrections, we’ll have to put it in stasis and wait a month to factor in the lacewings.”

Aggie was staring at Hermione, trying to decide if working with the new girl meant her year was going to be very easy, or very, very difficult. Riddle, of course, would be a trial, as always, but she had been hoping that Hermione would be a decent (normal) person. It appeared not.

Hermione, misinterpreting the look, added, “It’s not that I think we’ll mess up, I’d just like to have the extra time, just in case. And we’re not doing anything else right now.”

“I take it you’ve done this before?” asked Tom, who had been skimming the instructions as she spoke. There were two-hundred and thirty-seven steps to making polyjuice potion, and Hermione had not yet looked at the book.

“Only once. I’ll tell you about it later. Um. Just be really, really certain that you’re using human hair or whatever, at the end.”

Tom smirked. “What did you turn yourself into?”

“A cat. Erm. Mostly. It was a mess.” She retrieved half a dozen preserved murtlap tentacles from the storage cupboard.

“We should try to do an animal variation on purpose. It would be interesting,” Tom suggested when she returned.

“I don’t know…” Hermione busied herself dicing the murtlaps.

“ _Ɣ~ss’_ ”

“Did you just call me a mouse?”

“Yes,” Tom raised an eyebrow. “You’re getting pretty good at this.”

Hermione made a rude gesture at him and crushed a pufferpod with his mortar and pestle. He returned the gesture.

“Why not?”

“Don’t you think we have _enough other projects_ going on already? Make yourself useful and squeeze the juice out of the murtlaps. Mix it with the puffer sap.”

Tom did so, twisting the chunks of murtlap in a scrap of cheesecloth, and Hermione moved on to powdering cod scales. “If you chose the _right animal_ it could be a continuation of one of them.”

“Fine! I’ll put it on the list.” She rolled her eyes. “But we’re not testing anything until we finish a decent batch of Reversall _and_ a Rehumanizing Draught. I’m not getting trapped as a pseudo-lamia for six weeks!”

“But you’d make such a cute lamia.”

“Shut up, Tom.”

“Are you guys for real?” Augusta had her textbook open, but was looking back and forth between the two of them like they had each sprouted a second head.

Hermione blushed, and filled the cauldron with two gallons of water. Tom looked at Augusta blankly. “What?”

“I don’t even know where to start. Neither one of you has even read the directions yet.”

“I did,” said Tom.

“You looked at them for half a minute. And you’re following _her_ instructions without checking anything. You’re usually the _most_ anal person in the lab. That’s why no one wants to work with you. And you,” she turned to Hermione, “Are, apparently, making the most complicated potion I’ve ever seen, from memory, after doing it once.”

“To be fair, I did this part twice before I got it right. Up to the lacewings. My copy of Moste Potente Potions didn’t note that they had to be fresh. I found it in the marginalia about halfway through the simmering period.” The water had begun to boil. Hermione reduced the heat and added a quart of poppymilk.

“Oh, like that makes it so much better. _And_ you two are arguing about coming up with a variation on a ridiculously advanced potion while you do it, and seem to think you’re going to be making a Reversall and a Rehumanizing Draught outside of class, which is a post-NEWT potion, by the way.”

Augusta stopped to breathe. “Good point. I should see if I can figure out how to make the dorm put an extra bedroom in my hallway to use as a lab,” said Hermione. “You can add the myrtlpuff mixture, Tom.”

He did, and continued to talk, stirring clockwise. “Six turns?”

“Eighteen. It cuts down on the time before we can add the quaestral’s tears.”

“I’ll look into it. The room-building enchantments are linked into the House wards and structural enchantments. I’ve been meaning to crack them anyway. And eighteen.”

Hermione scattered the cod scales over the top of the mixture. “ _Tempus enumero inversus_.” With a wave of her wand, a countdown clock appeared showing 127 seconds.

“Gah!”

“What?”

“Well, you did just casually suggest that you were planning on breaking part of the Founders’ ward-system.” Hermione shelled three fire-snails, sliced the slugs in half length-wise, and set them aside. She cracked the shells sharply with the pommel of her knife, and quickly stuffed a sprig of coltsfoot in each.

“Don’t be ridiculous. The dorms have been modified dozens of times since Slytherin left.”

“That doesn’t make it better! And _you_ spoke Parseltongue! And _you_ understood him! And you were just casually joking about being turned into a lamia! And _you_ said the word _cute_!”

The countdown reached zero, and Hermione added the three fire-snail shells. There was a puff of red smoke, and the potion turned indigo. “Three counterclockwise turns, Tom, then a type four cross at half speed and a push-pull lifting mixing motion from seven to twelve to six, and on around three times.”

“It’s true, she would make a cute lamia.”

Hermione, wrapping fire-slug halves in mint leaves and piercing them with bronze pins to hold them in place, pointed out, “I would probably be dead. At least the cat was a mammal. I don’t think Polyjuice has enough kick to do cross-class transformations, since I didn’t even go fully cat.”

“Done.” The potion had lightened to a clear, pale periwinkle. Hermione added the slugs, which settled to the bottom immediately, trailing cloudiness in their wake. She re-cast the countdown spell, this time for 672 seconds. Tom continued, “We could try a variation on the Animagus Revealing Potion. I know there have been cases where it’s done _Aves_.”

“But that’s because it’s drawing forward an innate aspect of your personality.”

“It’s still a physical transformation.”

“I’m not at all sure it would be the same thing.”

“Do you want me to catch you an animagus and prove it?”

“What?”

“No. If you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, just, no.”

“What?”

“I wouldn’t kill it.”

“Well, you couldn’t could you? It would revert to human form. Why are we even having this conversation? No.”

“Why not?”

“Because, Tom, ignoring the ethical issues, I don’t think animagi _really_ turn into animals. What would happen to the extra mass? It’s not like there’s an exothermic reaction when they transform.”

Tom thought about this for a moment. Aggie looked back and forth between the two of them, feeling as though she had missed something incredibly important. The timer went off again, and Hermione added the three quaestrel’s tears, using standard stirring pattern 12, and removed the flames from beneath the cauldron.

“Now we let it cool to 53 degrees centigrade stirring pattern 5 every seven minutes, and then we just have to strain it and add half a powdered slowstone and it can sit under the right ambient conditions until Wednesday.” She started the timer and linked a temperature monitoring charm to the potion.

“Can we cool it?” Aggie was more than ready to leave her labmates and find normal, sensible people to talk to.

“No. It needs to take at least thirty-five minutes. If the room were any cooler, I’d have to put up warming charms.” The three students sat down to wait.

“I think when animagi do their transformation, they include a variation of Humbold’s Energy Suspension and then draw on that when they need their mass back,” said Tom.

Hermione considered this. It was possible. And the Animagus transformation was closest to Transfiguration, out of all the disciplines, so it would make sense.

“Fine, but that doesn’t mean that the potion does the same thing. Have you ever seen it in action?”

“No, you?”

“No, I haven’t... So what, first the Reversall, since we need to do it for class anyway, then the Rehumanizing Draught, and then the Animagus Revealing potion? And a general Purging Draught, I think that’s the counter for the Animagus Revealer. And _then_ whatever variation? Learning human transfiguration might be easier.”

“No, _first_ I need to get the dorm to make us a lab. And potions last longer than human transfiguration, unless we _actually_ become animagi, and that would only let us have one form. Human transfiguration needs a wand. So limiting. I say we go for it.” Seven minutes had passed. Tom stirred the potion.

Hermione powdered the slowstone and carefully weighed out half of it. “I’ll pencil the Reversall in for the weekend after next, then, shall I?”

Tom was not sure if that was a joke. “Better say the last weekend this month. I have plans next weekend, and we’ll have to have time to equip a lab.”

“Hmmm… you’re right. I’ll need to look up the air-freshening and fume-negating charms and set them in wardrunes.”

Eventually the conversation between Tom and Hermione died out, Tom making notes in the margins of his textbook and Hermione scribbling calculations on a spare bit of parchment. Aggie spoke up in the silence, choosing to ask about the most surprising thing that she had actually understood. “So is no one going to address the Parseltongue thing?”

“What ‘Parseltongue thing’?” asked Tom.

“Hermione said you called her a mouse. All I heard was a hissing sound. I’m not an idiot. Do the Slytherins know there are two of you yet?”

“I’m not a Parselmouth,” said Hermione, laughing. “This asshole’s just been insulting me in it all summer. I’ve come to recognize a few words. That’s all.”

“It’s true,” said Tom with an absolutely straight face, “I’m one of a kind.”

Hermione smirked and flicked him in the ear. He nearly fell off his stool trying to dodge and glared at her after he recovered his balance.

Hermione stirred the potion and returned to her calculations.

“Well I hate to break it to you, Mr. One of a Kind, but you’re acting almost like a normal person. What the hell happened over the summer?”

“I broke him,” said Hermione. Tom hissed something at her and made a few notes in his lab journal.

“What did…?”

“No idea. I’m sure it wasn’t polite.”

“Huh. So are you going to act like this for everyone, now, Riddle? Or just Hermione?”

“Probably just Hermione,” said Tom, absently.

“Do you like her?”

He looked up. “I don’t _dislike_ her.” _Unlike you_ was heavily implied.

“Oooh, Hermione, sounds like you’ve made a conquest.” Tom ignored this.

Hermione snorted. “It’s not like that at _all_.”

“Hmmm, well, if you say so. But you’re the first person I’ve actually seen him talk to like a real person in three years of classes, so I’d say you’ve a bit of a leg up on the rest of us if you do ever decide to pursue it.”

“Thanks for the advice, I’m sure.”

“You do know I’m _right here_?” Tom stood to stir the potion.

The girls ignored him, and Hermione continued. “So have you had an eye on our Mr. Riddle yourself, then, Miss Bones? You seem to have been paying awfully close attention to him for some time.”

Augusta laughed, “No, I’m betrothed to Angus Longbottom. He’s a sixth-year in Gryffindor. Very noble and dashing. Prefect. Handsome in a ruddy, sporting way. You’ll see him playing Keeper.”

“I see. So why the interest in Tom, then?”

Augusta shrugged. “I like to know why outsiders are on the outside. It’s obvious the other Slytherins don’t like him. No one wants to work with him in class. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve heard him say something that didn’t sound entirely weird, or else like a textbook. You’re the only person I’ve ever seen act like his friend. It’s interesting. How do you two know each other?”

Hermione smiled, thinking that Slytherins may be better at using people, but they clearly didn’t have a monopoly on observation. “I fetched up in London this summer, and professor Slughorn put me in contact with Tom to help me get my bearings. Nothing like sitting out air raids to bring people together, eh?”

“Why in blazes would you have come to London this year? I literally cannot think of a worse time.”

“Well, I didn’t have much of a choice, did I? My mum died in an accident last spring, and they shipped me off to live with my dad, who was in London.”

“Oh! I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks. I try not to think too much on it. But yes, long story short, that’s why I’m here.”

Hermione stirred the potion. “Seven more minutes. Could you set up the sieve over one of the other cauldrons? And Tom, if you could set up the Atmospheric on one of the storage cubicles?” She triple-checked her calculations. “We need 37 degrees centigrade, pressure 1 ATM, ambient magic insulation of point five. That, along with the slowstone, should put us in a good place to start with the next step in 46 and a half hours. It is 9:30 now, right?”

It was. Hermione levitated the potion to pour through the sieve. It had reached an opaque blue-green shade. Aggie verified that it matched the color described in the text (3BG 5/7.5/2 in the Ottovich Guide, Appendix D). Hermione sprinkled the slowstone powder over the surface, and it crystalized, sealing the potion. They moved the new cauldron to its storage cubicle, which Tom warded, and tidied their workspace before heading to History.


	28. Part 2: The story of the cat-related polyjuice mishap

2 September 1940

Augusta practically ran to distance herself from the two Slytherins as they all made their way toward the fifth floor and the History classroom. The halls were nearly deserted, as most students were either in class, or hadn’t left for their next class yet.

Once Augusta had attained a suitable distance, Tom asked, “So why did you need to know how to brew polyjuice in your old life?”

Hermione had been expecting this. “Funny story, that. Once upon a time, there were three little Gryffindors who wanted to get into the Slytherin common room.” Tom raised an eyebrow at this. “It was for a revenge prank, okay. And also to raid the library. It was my second year, and –“

“You learned to brew Polyjuice when you were twelve. For a _prank_? How on Earth…?”

“Well, my birthday was in September, and it was November, so I was thirteen, but yes. And it’s useful stuff. I wanted to see if I could do it. I set up an impromptu lab in one of the bathrooms. It’s haunted, so no one uses it in that time. _Anyway_ , the plan was that my friends and I would use it to sneak into the Slytherin common room over Christmas disguised as some of the Slytherins from our year who had also decided to stay, do some reconnaissance, take a few books, maybe wreak a little havoc, and then retreat, leaving Crabbe, Goyle, and Bulstrode to take the blame.”

“So what went wrong?”

“I got a short, black hair from Bulstrode’s robes that I thought was from her, but it must have been from her cat. I spent the next six weeks as various degrees of cat-girl. My friends did manage to carry out the plan, but didn’t find out anything worth the trip, and completely failed to bring me anything interesting,” she said with a sniff.

“So you’re saying,” said Tom, “that you brewed a _successful_ Polyjuice, that ridiculously complicated thing we just started, that requires constant monitoring and specific temperature, pressure, humidity, and ambient magic settings, in a haunted lav, two years ago, and only had to re-do the first fifty steps _once_ because your instructions were flawed, and then failed at the last second and turned yourself into a cat-girl. And the whole project was a total waste.”

“Well when you put it like _that_...”

“Leaving off the last bit, it sounds impressive as hell. I don’t believe it. Where did you get the boomslang skin?”

“I organized a distraction and stole it from the potions-master’s private stores.”

“Who gave a second-year access to _Moste Potente Potions_?”

“Our Defense Professor. That one was a bit of an idiot. I should tell you about that…”

“Later, yes. How did you get around the open environment?”

“I couldn’t control it, so I had to factor it in. I worked out what the environmental parameters were and then just showed up to add things when I needed to, since I couldn’t control the reaction times. I only had to make major corrections a few times, when I couldn’t get out of class. Most of the basic antimeres and ingredient corrections are in the appendix of our class text, you know.”

“I also know that with something _that_ complicated there’s no way the basic corrections were enough to pull it off. There are almost _two hundred and fifty_ steps to this potion, and you’re honestly telling me you made _corrections_ for _major timing problems, on the fly_ because you couldn’t control the environment, which was a _haunted bathroom_ , and it was close enough that it _worked_ , and the only problem was that _you added a cat hair at the end_?”

“Yes,” said Hermione, somewhat stiffly, looking around. Thankfully there were no other students in their hallway, as Tom had gotten a bit loud. “I expect it will be easier this time around, what with having a proper lab.”

Tom shook his head, “How many steps did your version have?”

“Oh, I never wrote it all out. I’d guess, three-hundred, maybe three-twenty-five if you factor in different heating and cooling and stasis spells.”

“ _And_ you remember the original instructions well enough that you didn’t need to even look at them, and you could tell me the freaking _stirring patterns_ two years later, and that time-reduction hint…” Tom paused. “I’m beginning to believe you meant it when you said you were just ‘ _that much smarter’_ than your peers.”

Hermione beamed.

“But you haven’t got the sense the gods gave a rabbit if you can’t tell a human hair from a cat hair.” Tom smirked at her, and dodged her smack at his shoulder.

“Seriously, I have every confidence in your ability to master a variation that will be able to turn you into a snake so you can learn to speak Parsel properly.”

“Not to mention it would be incredibly useful to be able to turn into any number of other creatures for whatever plans we might dream up in the meanwhile,” said Hermione somewhat drily, rolling her eyes.

“Exactly! So what were you going to tell me at breakfast?”

Hermione flushed, thinking that, of all the things she had done in the pursuit of excellence, her third-year class schedule had been one of the most embarrassing, as far as overachieving went. Even moreso than the Cat-Related Polyjuice Mishap – at least that had been part of trying to close the Chamber of Secrets. But she _had_ said she would tell him.

“Last year, well… I signed up for all the electives. They added a few more over the years. Muggle Studies, Diplomatic Relations, Politics of Magical Britain… I had fourteen full classes. And the administration gave me a time turner so I could attend all of my classes. Instead of just letting me do some of them independent study, or something like that. Time travel, to attend extra classes. Can you imagine? It’s just… complete and utter madness in hindsight.”

“A time turner. To attend extra classes? Has everyone lost their minds in the future?”

“It does rather seem that way sometimes.” She laughed rather helplessly.

“So you were a time traveler _before_ you were a time traveler?”

Hermione thought about that sentence for a second. “In more ways than one, apparently.” Tom almost smiled at that.

They had nearly reached the History classroom, and there were several small groups of students loitering in the hall.

“You’re going to tell me more about that later, too,” said Tom. They had only ever talked about the theory of time travel, not the fact that Hermione had been meddling with time for _ages_ before she met him.

Hermione nodded and added quietly, “And I’ll probably also have something to say about Binns.”

“What? He’s at least a hundred years old.”

“Yes, he is, isn’t he.”

“Are you telling me—”

“ _Later,_ ” said Hermione, as they filed into the classroom.

…

Hermione was pleasantly surprised to find that Professor Binns had been a much more engaging speaker before his death. Even better, his lesson plans, as he outlined them for the semester, did not once touch on Goblin Wars. The third-years would be covering the development of the Wizengamot and modern magical politics. He warned them that they would be covering only the _development_ of modern magical politics, not covering any modern issues specifically. He said he imagined they would make it to the turn of the century, or so, and then discuss the changes which had occurred in the magical world since that time the following semester. Hermione made a note to go to Binns’ office hours and find out what topics he covered in the first three years.

The fourth-years were released after half an hour. Most of them made their way toward the Great Hall or the library, as only the Hufflepuff dorm was located reasonably near the History classroom, and even that was two floors down. Hermione headed to the Library to take out a few books on warding. Tom trailed along, saying he had nothing better to do until lunch, but he grabbed a few books on interactive enchantments, as well, presumably serious about trying to find a way to get a potions lab in their dorm.

They returned to their rooms to drop off their books before lunch.

…

Hermione knew as soon as she entered her hallway that something was wrong. There was a smell of singed hair permeating the air. She brought up the lighting charms to find a second or third-year girl completely unconscious in front of her door. Hermione levitated the girl out of the way with a sniff, diffused the hex sign on the door, and let herself in. She exchanged the library books for her runes and arithmancy texts. Tom had the divination references. Errand complete, she re-energized the hex sign and floated the still-unconscious girl ahead of her into the Common Room.

Tom was waiting, and looked mildly interested at her captive. “Not the Flames of Arswan again?”

“No,” said Hermione, trying to decide what to do with the unconscious girl. “The strongest Lighting hex sign I could remember this morning. A _kuponya mphezi_. What do you think I should do with her?”

“Make an example of her. If you don’t, they’ll just keep testing you.”

“Ah, but _how_ should I make an example of her?”

Tom thought for a moment. “Well, the most impressive thing would be for anyone who attacks you to just go missing.”

“The logistics of that are too ridiculous to discuss. What would I do with her? And I don’t want to keep her captive. She has classes and so on.”

“Well, I’d suggest torture, but I don’t imagine you’d go for it.”

“You imagine correctly.”

Tom sighed, “You’re no fun. Just petrify her and leave her in her bathroom, then. Her year-mates will find her sooner or later.”

“That could work. Is she a third year?”

“Second. Katherine Aspic. And if you don’t hurry, I’m going to leave without you.”

“I’ll be right back.”

Hermione floated her prisoner down the hall and located the second-year girls’ bathroom. She revived the younger girl to ensure that she hadn’t been badly hurt by the lightning hex (it would be bad, she thought, to leave the girl for an unknown amount of time if she needed the hospital wing), only to be immediately insulted. For that, Hermione thought, the girl should have to wait to be rescued until at least after dinner. And who would have thought that little pureblood girls knew that kind of language? After tying the younger girl with heavy ropes and placing her in a fully body bind, she Disillusioned her, ensuring that, should any of her yearmates return after lunch, she would not be rescued prematurely.

Tom thought the disillusionment was a nice touch.


	29. Part 2: Monday Afternoon

2 September 1940

The fourth-years made it to the Hall in time to make and eat quick sandwiches before Professors McKinnon and Shylock sent a flurry of notes summoning the dual-enrolled Divination/Runes students to their meeting. Tom and Hermione joined fellow fourth-years Alethea Malfoy, Tamsin Shaunassy, and Cameron Terrance from Ravenclaw, Filius (Fil, seriously, don’t call me _Filius_ ) Locke from Hufflepuff, and Neville Masters from Gryffindor (and about thirty students from the third, fifth, sixth, and seventh-year cohorts) in moderately sized first-floor classroom.

The outgoing Fil welcomed Hermione to their year’s “Overachievers’ Club” and explained that there were also a couple of honorary members who were taking both Care of Magical Creatures and Arithmancy, but that Divination/Runes/Arithmancy was much more widely considered to be the more difficult arrangement. Cameron, he added, was the only person in their year currently stupid enough to be taking all four electives.

The professors joined them after a few minutes and, consulting several sheets of parchment, quickly explained that fourth-year Divination would have their Practicals on Monday, while Runework would be applied on Wednesdays. Then, as they would be missing her introductory class, Professor Shylock outlined her expectations for their semester before handing them syllabi, and assigning their reading for the week and their first essay, to be turned in on Wednesday. She did not take questions.

Hermione was most impressed by the young Runes instructor’s brisk attitude, and the syllabus, which was the only one she had seen at Hogwarts. Tom was irritated, but not at all surprised that they would be expected to turn in work their first class period. The rest of the club joined him in good-natured grumbling for a few minutes, before talk turned to gossip about the other fourth-years.

Professor Shylock, Hermione learned, had a reputation as one of the strictest taskmistresses in the school, second only to Professor Russell, the Arithmancy Mistress, in her expectations for her students. She listened closely as the other fourth-years talked about their fellows, not knowing enough to contribute much to the discussion. Tom didn’t seem to be paying attention, his gaze wandering the room, and no one spoke to him directly, though his occasional comments to her suggested that he was not quite so disinterested as he pretended.

Cameron had not, apparently, realized that Melina was flirting with him in Potions, and was not at all interested in pursuing her. In fact, he asked Fil to put in a good word with Amy Pond, one of his housemates. Thea and Tammie talked about Tammie’s family’s summer trip to America, and Neville said he had heard that Leslie Benton’s family was considering immigrating to avoid the war. The other Ravens said that it wasn’t true, though the Gruenfelters and Blumengelds, Jewish muggle families who had had students in the younger years, had left, fearing that Germany would manage to invade England, despite their resistance so far. There was an awkward moment as the students considered the war, and Fil quickly changed the subject, offering the news that Anamaria Le Parc had hinted after Potions that she was going to ask Damocles Smith to the first Hogsmeade weekend. Tammie looked scandalized, and Neville made a crack about bold French ladies.

Eventually the professors called the students to order, to speak for a few minutes about office hours and what students should do if they should become overwhelmed, before dismissing them to head to their next class. The fourth-year cohort walked to the Divination classroom together.

Hermione was pleased to find that, unlike in Trelawney’s time, Divination was held in a normal classroom on the second floor, rather than an over-heated Rastafarian tea-shop at the top of North Tower. She was less pleased to find, when Professor McKinnon asked the students to demonstrate what they remembered from the previous year, that she was woefully behind in scrying. Her term and a half of reading tea-leaves for the mad old bat had not prepared her for studying any other aspects of divination.

Professor McKinnon informed Hermione that she would report to his office for remedial studies every Saturday morning until she had caught up with her peers, or she would have to drop the class. She flushed fiercely, hating the professor for highlighting her weakness in front of the other students, but did not argue, not wanting to draw even more attention to her failure. She returned to her mirror and attempted to allow her magic to pool on its surface.

“Have you forgotten we have plans this Saturday?” whispered Tom, with whom she was sharing a table.

“What was I supposed to do? Tell him, no I can’t make it? Drop the class? You’re the one who insisted that Divination is important,” she hissed back. “You’ll just have to go without me.”

Tom looked rather put out. She wondered why.

“It’s probably for the best, anyway. Introduce yourself before bringing in a new person, you know.”

“Fine,” he huffed, and changed the subject. “You’re doing it wrong. You have to reach a meditative state _before_ you ask your magic to do things.”

“’ _Ask your magic_ ’? What is that supposed to mean?”

“Scrying,” Tom explained, “Is mostly a wandless art. You might enchant your mirror or basin or whatever before you start, but infusing it with your power to create the window, that you have to do without a wand, and once you’ve done it, the mirror acts as your focus.”

“ _I know that_. It was in the book. But how do you get your magic into the mirror in the first place?”

“Like I said, you have to relax. Let your power rise up around you and then you kind of _suggest_ to it that it should pool around your mirror. It’s really not that hard. Look, even Le Parc has managed it,” he nodded at the little French girl at the next table.

She was staring intently at her mirror, but aside from that, Hermione couldn’t see anything that indicated the girl had managed to pool her magic.

“How can you tell?”

Tom looked at her like she was an idiot. “The puddle of silver light in her hands is kind of a dead give-away.”

“What are you on about?”

“Are you blind?”

“No, I’m not _blind_ , thank you very much. I just don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

Tom glared at her. “I’m not making it up.”

She rolled her eyes. “Did I say you were? I just don’t see what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, Merlin’s balls,” Tom swore in frustration. He pushed power into the link on their left hands, and fairly _dragged_ Hermione’s consciousness into his mind, so that she was looking through his eyes. Her body froze in her seat as it reflexively tried not to fall over. Suddenly the other students were surrounded by various degrees of shimmering clouds. Several were apparently holding pools of the shimmering light in their outstretched hands. _Now do you see? _ thought Tom.

Hermione wrenched her mind back into her own body with a shudder. “ _Not_ okay, Tom! Don’t do that again! At least warn me first!”

“Did you see?”

“Yes. And that’s weird. No one else I know has ever talked about seeing magic. I haven’t even ever read about it.”

“That’s stupid. Everyone sees magic when they cast spells. Don’t they?”

“Well, yes, but it doesn’t look like _that_.”

Tom shrugged. “It’s undirected.”

“Why should that make a difference?”

“ _I_ don’t know.”

Professor McKinnon had been making his way around the room, advising the students as they tried to recall their lessons from the previous term. He interrupted their furiously whispered debate. “If you two can’t focus on your work, I’ll have to ask you to separate,” he said mildly.

“Yes, sir,” said Tom, turning back to his mirror.

Hermione nodded, then asked, “Sir, is it normal for people to see magic when other people are scrying?” Tom kicked her under the table.

“It’s not unheard of, but not common.” He looked between the two students, observing the Riddle boy’s glare and the new girl’s frustration. “An unusually well-tuned sense for magic would explain Mr. Riddle’s aptitude for the subject,” he added. “That doesn’t mean that one needs to be able to sense free magic to excel, you understand. I just wouldn’t compare myself to your friend too much as you’re starting out, if I were you. We can talk more about it on Saturday, if you like.”

“Yes, sir,” said Hermione, suitably reassured that she was not some sort of squib, with a special _inability_ see magical auras around her meditating peers.

Tom was torn between satisfaction in learning that he _was_ special, even among wizards, and irritation that McKinnon knew. He did try to make a point of not letting adults know anything important about himself, after Dumbledore's Flaming Wardrobe Ploy. They were much easier to handle if they underestimated you.

The professor moved on, and Hermione returned to her meditation. Tom focused on scrying the morning’s events, and was pleased to confirm at the end of the class period that Avery and Nott had indeed interrupted Dumbledore’s welcome-back speech, and that the professor had been most put out, giving the boys a week of detention for “failing to appreciate the importance of others’ time and tardiness to the first lesson of the term.”

The fourth-years moved on to Arithmancy, Tom and Hermione were joined by the other Slytherins, while about half the Hufflepuffs and all of the Gryffindors except Neville and Melina Sparks left for Care of Magical Creatures.

Professor Russell was perhaps forty years old, and had already developed an aura of severity around her that Hermione thought was comparable to Professor McGonagall on a bad day. She outlined their objectives for the term – they would be focusing largely on modeling intermediate Charms (a continuation of their first year’s studies in arithmancy) and also begin to model inanimate to inanimate transfigurations – and kept them right up until five with a lecture reviewing the key arithmantic principles (and basic algebra) she expected they had forgotten over the summer.

Hermione thought this review was most useful, as it gave her a good idea of the state of the discipline. It had developed rather a lot in fifty years, and she thought that if their first lesson had been an application session, she might very well have given away the fact that she was completely out of time, given that the first-year techniques _she_ had learned were well advanced over even the most cutting-edge research in 1940. She resolved to spend some time on Tuesday evening looking over the previous year’s text so that she would not accidentally use an analytic that had not yet been invented on Wednesday.


	30. Part 2: Monday Never Ends

2 September 1940

There was a free hour scheduled from five to six, to allow students to return their books to their dorms before reporting to the Great Hall for dinner. The Slytherin fourth-years did so, Hermione complaining that she had no time for dinner at all if she was to have some semblance of a decent ward on her room that night, given that they were expected at the top of the Astronomy Tower at nine.

By the time they reached their Common Room, Edmond was so tired of her complaints that he told her to just order a house elf to bring her a plate.

She blinked at him. “You can do that?”

“Of course you can,” he said scathingly, “Haven’t they got elves in the States?”

“What? Oh, yes, I suppose, but, well… my mother didn’t,” she finished, awkwardly.

Scorpius came to her rescue, returning the subject to the Hogwarts elves: “I wouldn’t make a habit of it. They’re bound to the castle, and tend to get a bit touchy if students take too much advantage of them. Keeps them from doing their regular duties. But they don’t mind if you ask them to fetch you a sandwich every now and again.”

“Oh. How does one go about it, then?”

“You just think clearly of where you are or what you need, and call an elf’s name,” said Leo.

“Dot is the one who’s normally assigned to watch our dorm,” added Scorpius.

“Dot?” Hermione called, hesitantly.

There was a soft pop, and a tiny elf wearing a tea-towel with the Hogwarts crest embroidered on it appeared in the middle of their group. “Missy callses for Dot?”

“Um…yes. Dot, could you or one of the other elves send me a sandwich, like the ones we had for lunch? I don’t have time to make it to the Hall for dinner tonight.”

“Of course, missy. Is there beings anything else?”

“A sandwich for me as well,” said Tom, who had been lurking, nearly forgotten, throughout the conversation. “And a water pitcher.”

The elf nodded. “Dot is havings its sent to the table in the library, yes, yes.” She vanished with another pop.

“You needn’t be so polite to the elves,” said Scorpius. “They live to serve, after all.”

“I suppose your family kick their elves,” said Leo.

“Of course not! But they’re not _human_. It’s not like they appreciate the thought. They’d be just as happy to follow orders,” argued the Malfoy boy.

“That’s still no call to be _rude_ ,” said Edmond.

“Indeed. Is not the true mark of a gentleman the grace with which he treats his servants?” asked Leo rhetorically.

“You can just take your _noblesse oblige_ and shove it,” said Malfoy, turning to take his bag to his room. “You lot coming? Or should I call the elf back to bring more sandwiches?”

Leo and Edmond followed Scorpius toward their rooms, Leo muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “new money.” Edmond laughed.

Hermione fetched a notebook and the books on wardcrafting that she had found earlier and entered the House Library. The Library was a small, rectangular room, closely lined with books on three sides. The fourth wall was open to the Common Room. There was a pair of armchairs at the opposite end, and a large table (too large for the space, Hermione thought) with chairs for six. Two plates with turkey and swiss sandwiches, two apples, a pitcher of water, and two glasses sat at the far end of the table. Apparently, Hermione thought, the elves did appreciate her politeness.

Tom joined her a moment later, books on architectural enchanting in hand. He settled in an armchair to read without a word, leaving his dinner for the moment. Hermione finished her sandwich, set an _evigilar_ for eight fifteen, and began taking notes on wards that might be useful for her room, but was quickly sidetracked by privacy wards for grimoires and diaries. She looked up around seven to ask Tom what he thought of a particular combination of privacy ward and secrecy spells for a journal, only to find that he had fallen asleep. She marked the page and returned to room wards. By the time the _evigilar_ buzzed, she had an outline for what she thought ought to be a working door-ward – an intent-based wall-ward for the “fourth-year girls’” hall, combined with a simple proximity alarm, and a private space ward which could be keyed to her own magical signature.

She woke Tom with a sensation like the snap of a rubber band on the back of his left hand (only fair, she thought, given the number of times he had shocked her since Friday), and informed him that they had to leave for Astronomy in fifteen minutes if they were to be on time. He stretched and looked over her notes as she packed up the books.

“I think you’ve forgotten a _metephus_ , here,” he said, pointing to one corner of the diagram for the private space ward.

“What?” She quickly found the reference she had used. “No, I haven’t…oh, you…” Tom dodged her smack at his shoulder and cracked his neck. A _metephus_ would have caused an inversion of the ward, so that the only person who could _not_ enter her room was her.

“It was worth a shot,” said Tom with a smirk. He kept her notes as they returned their books to their rooms.

“Come on, we’re going to be late.”

“No, we’re not. What is all this?” Tom gestured with her notes. “These aren’t space wards. And is this a mirroring charm?”

Hermione snagged the pages out of his hand and shoved them into her bag. “I thought I might try to enchant a journal so I can keep notes on our projects without having to worry about other people seeing them. The one that looks like a mirroring charm is a privacy ward for a diary. It uses mirroring to cover whatever you’ve written with the semblance of another book you’ve keyed it to, like my arithmancy notes, or something. The tricky part is the recognition key – it’s supposed to be set up so it’s intent-based – anyone trying to _sneak_ a look would only see arithmancy. I want it to be better than that. After all, someone could still see the real notes if they weren’t actually trying to. I’m thinking if I combine it with the same key I’m using for the space ward, I can make it so anyone who’s not _me_ will see the cover-text. The other one is a locking ward for grimoires, the one that makes it so only a certain person or members of a certain family can open them.”

“Sounds interesting. I was looking at something similar before I fell asleep. A combination Proteus-twinning enchantment, so that whatever you write in one book shows up in another. If we made it two-way, you could just write me all of the things you keep saying you’ll ‘tell me later’.”

Hermione grinned and looked around. The coast was clear. “We need to get the privacy thing working first. I don’t want the whole school to know, for example, that Dumbledore became Headmaster and kept Binns on after he died.”

“What?” Tom’s eyes narrowed. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

Hermione giggled. “Binns became a ghost, you see, and just …kept teaching. He didn’t ever really cover much more than the Goblin Wars, though. I can’t think _what_ the Headmaster was thinking, keeping him on.”

Tom looked like he couldn’t decide if this was exactly the sort of thing one would _expect_ Dumbledore to do, or if it was too ridiculous and must be made up. “Are you serious?”

“Oh, yes. If I were going to make something up, it would be _much_ more believable,” she said, nodding. “I was very pleased to see he’s a much more _animated_ lecturer, living.”

Tom rolled his eyes at the pun, and they gave up talking as they made their way up the sixteen flights of stairs that led to the Astronomy Tower Observation Deck.

For the first time all day, the two Slytherins had managed to arrive before the majority of their class. Professor Leicaster, a thin, pale witch with silvery-blonde hair, who looked barely out of school herself, had already arrived, and was lying on an observation mat next to a Hufflepuff boy Hermione hadn’t met, apparently pointing out Jupiter. Tom said his name was Teague, and he was widely known to be the slowest person in their year. Aggie Bones had already arrived, along with Melina Sparks and a boy they introduced as Teddy Potter. Hermione managed not to gasp when she heard his name, but it was a close thing. Tammie Shaunassy introduced Hermione to Hufflepuffs Lily Derring and Cherie Rowle as the other students trickled up the stairs.

Professor Leicaster had just stood to introduce herself and discuss the focus of the night’s observations when they were joined by the last two students, Leslie Benton and Alethea Malfoy, both of whom looked decidedly _rumpled_. Alethea apologized, giggling and saying they had lost track of time. The other Ravenclaws smirked knowingly at them. Scorpius, who was beginning to stand out as the biggest gossip in fourth-year Slytherin, had rolled his eyes in disgust as he quietly explained that Leslie and his sister had started dating at the end of last term, and apparently had forgotten to set an _evigilar_ in their haste to re-discover their favorite broom cupboard.

The professor was new this year, Hermione learned, and had graduated from Beauxbatons three years previously. She had done her Master’s work on the interference of comets and other small celestial bodies on the movements of moons, and the impact these interactions had on the predictions of Centauri astrology. On hearing that the young woman had been working with Centaurs for the past three years, Hermione was forced to re-evaluate her initial assessment of the professor as frail-looking and delicate. Weak women simply could not work around Centaurs. The students spent an hour and a half reviewing their knowledge of major constellations and the planets so that the new professor could determine their current skill level, and were dismissed until their classroom discussion on Friday afternoon.

The Slytherins reached their dorm again at half eleven, and Hermione, dead on her feet after seventeen hours, decided that the lightning hex would be sufficient protection until morning.


	31. Part 2: Extra-curricular Enchanting

3 September 1940

Much as she would have liked to lie in, Hermione woke again at 6:30 and made her way to breakfast, stomach grumbling over her hasty and reduced lunch and dinner the previous day. She found that both Tom and Bella had arrived before her. The younger girl was talking the fourth-year’s ear off about her first classes and the other first-year Slytherin girls, Abby and Mary. Tom appeared to be ignoring her entirely. Hermione sat across the table from them, and Bella immediately shifted her attention, perhaps realizing that Hermione was more likely to care about her ramblings, or perhaps because she had already told Tom everything once.

Hermione made the mistake of responding, asking where Abby and Mary were, and was treated to a ten-minute soliloquy, interrupted only by pancakes, on the cliques developing within the first-year cohort. The short answer was that they did not feel comfortable bothering the upperclassmen so early in the morning, especially since Tom had threatened to eat _Mary_ for breakfast, and so the other girls were sitting with Luc and John, at the far end of the table.

Hermione gave Tom a reproving look at this.

“Her voice is shrill and she was talking even more than Bellatrix,” was his defense. “It’s not like I actually _did_ anything.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and finished her toast. “What are you doing with your free period, Tom?” she asked.

“Probably go back to the enchanting thing. You?”

“Wards. And maybe work on that notebook thing if I have time. Bella?”

“Yes?”

“Are you going to be here for lunch?”

“Yes, why?”

“I may need you to test something for me. Maybe. We’ll see.”

“Okay!” The post arrived, and the younger girl ran to catch her year-mates and walk with them to their first class.

“I hate morning people,” said Tom.

“Sleep poorly again?”

“Not particularly, but there’s just something _wrong_ about having so much energy, so early.”

Hermione snorted, thinking that he had had plenty of energy Sunday morning, but said only, “You coming, then?” as she stood to return to Slytherin.

Tom followed her back, and retreated to the Library while she double checked her diagrams, and carefully marked them onto the back of her door and the hall door with charcoal and chalk. After activating the runes, she asked Tom to test whether he could get into the hall with ill intentions (he could not) and no particular intentions (he could), and her room (he could not). Satisfied that her defenses should be sufficient at least until she could find time to improve them, she placed permanent sticking, impervious, and notice-me-not charms over them, so that they could not simply be wiped away by a devious guest.

She joined Tom, then, in the Library, and turned to the notebook project. Placing any sort of permanent spell on an inanimate object was more the realm of enchanting than warding or charms, but she thought that the ward reference on grimoires she had found should have basic integration enchantments, as it was meant to be used on a book, and that that should be enough to hold it all together.

She was wrong. After watching her try and fail twice to integrate her spells with a blank notebook, Tom finally asked her if she had any idea what she was doing. She had to admit she did not. She had not yet had a reason to learn basic enchanting.

“How badly do you want this to work?” asked Tom.

“How badly do you want to perfect a secret means of communication so we can pass notes in class discussing things that won’t exist for another fifty years?” Hermione was in somewhat of a snit. She didn’t like failing at things.

“Hand me your notes.”

She slid the pages across the table and walked around to look over his shoulder as he pointed out the mistakes in her conditional spell formulation which needed to be corrected to hook the charms into the ward-system and define their separate activation conditions, and added a few lines of Younger Futhark, which would serve to stabilize the lot of it and tie it to the book.

“You do know that this family grimoire ward you’re using is just a variation on an old blood ward, right?”

“No, I didn’t. Aren’t blood wards illegal?”

Tom hesitated, trying to recall that particular legislation. “It’s a grey area, I think, since this is just _recognizing_ shared blood, not actually _using_ blood power for anything.”

“So what does that mean?”

“Well, you can simplify a _lot_ of it,” he crossed out a large section of the middle of the ward-runes that was meant to define herself, “and you’ll just have to add a drop of your blood in _this_ space,” he marked it with a circle, “when you copy it into the book.”

He looked over his revised version of the spells. “It should work now.”

“It’s a quarter past nine already. I’ll have to wait until lunch.”

“Oh, just pass me the damn notebook. I’ll do it. It will take five minutes.”

“But…fine. Here.” She leaned across the table and grabbed the blank book.

“Got the book that’s going to serve as the cover-text?” She nodded. “Mark the inside of the front cover with an inverted ‘ _feru_ ’, inverted ‘ _matat’_ and upright ‘ _norsk_ ’, and then pass me the quill and inkpot.”

She did so, and he proceeded to cover the inside of the back cover of the blank book with a dense pattern of runes and lines, writing out the arithmantic formulae for the cover text charm, the blood ward, and the conditions for their activation as well as the Futhark stabilization phrase. He pricked her finger with a conjured needle and directed her to press a bloody fingerprint into a circle at the center of the ward. Finally he rattled off the two spells, complete with enchantment codicils, conditional activations, and linking definitions, hardly pausing to breathe. The enchantment diagram glowed red, then blue, then vanished entirely with an added “ _celare_ ”.

“Done!” He cast a tempus and saw that it had been just over ten minutes, but that still left them plenty of time to get to class. Hermione was staring, nearly as impressed with Tom’s enchanting as he had been with her potions expertise the day before. “Try writing something.”

 _My name is Hermione Jean Granger_. She wrote.

Tom frowned. “That can’t be right. I should be seeing your class notes, right?”

“I think so,” Hermione said, hesitant, “But remember I told Bella I might need her to test it? I think the ward might recognize us as family, what with the blood-bond. On the other hand, it just might not be working.”

“Well, it should be working. The diagram wouldn’t have gone blue if it had been seriously off. Write a bit more, I guess, and make Bellatrix look at it. And we should go. Flitwick’s not bad, but he does tend to get overexcited if students are late.”

“He gets overexcited over _everything_ ,” Hermione pointed out. “I don’t know how he was ever a professional duelist.”

“I can see it. He’s very intense.”

The conversation ended as they met their year-mates near the entrance to Slytherin and walked with them to the Charms classroom. The other boys inquired politely as to how Hermione (and Tom) had spent the morning. She explained that she had been researching wards for her hallway, and invited them to test her preliminary defenses when they returned to the dorm. Many jokes were made about “testing Hermione’s defenses” and she was quite relieved to reach the Charms classroom and female company.


	32. Part 2: Cheering Charms

3 September 1940

Professor Flitwick was, indeed, intense. He outlined the goals of the term as exploring the limits of emotionally motivated spellcasting, potentially working up to the Patronus by the end of the year. Their first lesson involved reviewing the principles of mood-altering charms, and then practicing them. Cheering Charms had apparently been the last thing the third-years had learned.

As soon as Flitwick had said “emotionally motivated spells,” Tom had put his head down on the desk. The other Slytherins were casting sidelong glances at him and sniggering. When Flitwick released them to practice their Cheering Charms on each other, Hermione asked him what was wrong.

“I can’t do Cheering Charms,” said Tom. “I was hoping we were _done_ with them. I might as well take a ‘D’ for this term right now.”

“What? Why can’t you do Cheering Charms?”

“I –“ Tom began, but Scorpius interrupted him, having already received a Cheering Charm from Edmond: “No one knows. It’s the only thing old Riddle is bad at. Makes the rest of us feel much better about being in the same class as him.” He grinned and shot a Charm at Leo.

“It’s true,” said Tom, demonstrating by sending a perfectly well-shaped but ineffectual Charm at Hermione. “It wasn’t an issue last year – we only had the one week on them – but if the whole term is on emotive spells, I’m fucked.”

“You seem so distraught over that fact,” noted Hermione drily.

“Being an emotionless bastard does have its up-sides,” said Tom quietly. “If there’s really nothing I can do, I’ll just use the time as a study hall or something.”

“Does it work _on_ you?”

“What?”

Hermione shot a Cheering Charm at Tom. “What do you feel when I hit you with a Cheering Charm?” She did it again.

He thought about it. “A slight sensation of warmth around my heart, and it makes my hands sweaty and a little tingly. Why?”

“Mostly just curious. I have an idea. One second, let me get Aggie over here. Aggie!” Tom made a face.

“I think you should come over into my mind, like when I was in your head in Divination yesterday, just float in that surface-thoughts space and see if you can feel what I feel when _I_ get hit with it.”

“Okay,” Tom shrugged. “It can’t possibly hurt, can it?” He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, as though he had decided to just take a nap, and sent his consciousness through the Mark to Hermione. The last time he had done this, he had focused almost entirely on what she was seeing and hearing. This time, he tried to spread himself out so that he was aware of what she was _feeling_. It was, he thought, entirely _odd_ to inhabit someone else’s body.

Aggie bounced over and Hermione asked her to practice, because someone, she said, shooting a fake-angry look at Tom’s body, thinks himself too good for cheering charms.

 _Hey!_  thought Tom.

 _Just go with it,_ responded Hermione _, it’s consistent with the way most of them think of you, you know._

He hadn’t known, but it hardly mattered.

Hermione went first, summoning a memory to the front of her mind. Tom watched: a stern, older woman told a somewhat younger Hermione that she was a witch, and all the things that went wrong around her so very inexplicably were magic, and best of all that Hermione was _not_ going mad… And then Hermione cast the spell and let the memory fade back out of conscious thought.

And then it was Aggie’s turn.

_Ready?_

“ _Gaudio scirere!”_

The Charm hit like a punch to the gut. Endorphins and hormones flooded through Hermione’s body with a rush of giddiness. It was like _excitement, high_ but overwhelmingly _positive,_ and somehow _assuring_ , as though nothing in the world could possibly go wrong. Tom was overwhelmed, falling back into his own body, and then out of his chair.

“Holy shit!” Everyone turned to see what had just happened.

Hermione giggled, and quickly cast the general cancellation on herself. “Alright there, Tom?”

He returned to his chair, shaking his head. Flitwick bustled over, asking if perhaps Mr. Riddle needed to visit the Hospital wing.

“I think that might be best, Professor,” he managed to respond.

Flitwick looked around for the nearest student. “Miss, ah, Granger, yes? Would you accompany Mr. Riddle to Madam Turner? Thank you, thank you. The rest of you lot, how are your Charms coming along? If you’ve got the Cheering Charm, you would do well to review the basics, you know…”

Hermione grabbed their bags and led Tom out into the hall, where he sat rather abruptly against a wall.

“I don’t need to go to the Hospital Wing,” he said, “Just…give me a minute. Wow.”

“Maybe we should stop doing things like this,” suggested Hermione. “It doesn’t seem to turn out well for you, in general.”

“No, I’m fine. It’s just… do normal people feel like that all the time?”

Hermione laughed and sat next to him, “Not quite like that, no. That was a rather concentrated burst of happiness.”

“No shit. I …felt like I could do anything. Take on the world. Excited and just… giddy. It was… intense. And really uncomfortable and overwhelming. People like that?” He looked miserable.

“In fairness, it’s not as overwhelming if you’re used to it. So do you think you could make someone feel that the way you make them feel pain? It’s similar enough, I think. All emotions are based in chemical reactions at some level, after all. You just have to know what you want the target to feel. That’s why you have to focus on a happy memory to cast it, or bafflement for the Confunding Charm, or anger for Ira.”

“Well, I don’t think I have any “happy” memories, if that’s happiness, but I could give it a shot,” he said, pointing his wand at Hermione. “ _Gaudio scirere._ ”

She giggled, sensations of joy welling up inside her. “ _Finite_. I think you’ve got it.”

“I’m not entirely sure it was worth it,” he said with a shudder.

She tried casting the charm on Tom, again, to no effect. “You’re weird,” she informed him.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” he said, rising to his feet. “Come on, class will be over soon, and we shouldn’t still be here when Flitwick comes out. Let’s head to lunch.”

Half way to the great hall, a thought occurred to Hermione, and she started to chuckle.

“What?” asked Tom, warily.

“How badly do you want to pass Charms this semester?”

“I don’t know. I’ll think about it. That was…” Tom trailed off with another shudder, “I’m perfectly fine the way I am, thank you very much.”

Tom and Hermione were the first Slytherins to arrive to lunch. The first years arrived next, shepherded by Professor Sprout, who had apparently walked them back from the greenhouses. Tom called Bella over immediately to test his enchantment on the journal.

It worked, of course. The younger girl could not open the book, and once Hermione opened it for her, she said she saw “Fall 1940 – Arithmancy – Prof. Mary Russell,” which was, in fact, the first line of Hermione’s Arithmancy notes.

“Excellent,” said Tom, tucking it into his bag. “I’ll make a second copy and link them together with a two-way version of that Protean Duplication thing.”

“What’s that?” asked Bella.

“A thing to send secret messages to each other in class,” said Hermione.

“Awesome! Can I have one?”

Hermione and Tom exchanged a look. “We’ll think about it,” said Hermione.

“Fine,” said Bella, before leaping up with a, “Got to run, Leo’s coming.”

Tom smirked, apparently back to his normal self, as the other fourth-years arrived.

“What are you lot up to, then?” asked Leo as his cousin fled the scene.

“I think she’s avoiding you,” said Hermione. “Did I miss something at Dinner last night?”

“Not much. I just told her to stop hanging around with us and spend some time with kids her own age.”

“Already tired of babysitting?”

“Powers, she’s a nightmare!”

Hermione and the other boys laughed at Leo’s distress. Hermione, for one, did not doubt that this was exactly the outcome Bella had been going for, if her reading of the younger girl’s interactions with her cousin was at all accurate.

“So, Riddle,” began Scorpius, “What the hell happened in Charms?”

“I was thinking about emotive spells and realized something important about the Underlying Principle. You wouldn’t understand.”

“What _I_ understand,” Malfoy drawled, reminding Hermione forcibly of his descendant, “Is that you still can’t do a simple Cheering Charm, and you fell out of your chair whilst taking a nap. You’re lucky Flitwick didn’t give you detention.”

“Believe what you like,” said Tom with a shrug. “We’ll see who’s laughing come Thursday.”

“Riiiight,” said Edmond, and the group turned to their lunch. “Hey, Hermione, has this git told you yet about his ‘personality conflict’ with Professor Dumbledore?”

“He hates me for no reason, and you know it,” said Tom.

“No,” said Hermione, hiding a grin. “What’s this about, then?”

“There’s no reason for it at all,” explained Edmond, “But somehow Riddle here has got it into his head that Dumbledore doesn’t like him or doesn’t trust him or something. Swears up and down that the Transfiguration professor is trying to read his mind and has it out for him.”

“He just doesn’t like you because you’re a show-off, Riddle,” added Leo. “That’s why he never gives you any points.”

“Please, Riddle, for our sakes: don’t antagonize him this year,” added Scorpius. “Please. Look I even said _please_. Twice. Just don’t pick a fight or do any unauthorized transformations or ‘help’ Leigh Teague right into the Hospital Wing. Again.”

“What did you do to Teague?” Hermione asked.

Scorpius answered. “He turned the stuffed animal the kid was working on into a giant spider. He fainted. Riddle said he was just trying to help with the day’s transformation, and it went wrong. Dumbledore said that no second-year makes a fully functional bird spider out of a stuffed bear _by accident_ and gave him detention for a month.”

“Yeah,” added Edmond. “It was hilarious until Dumbledore decided to take fifty points from Slytherin over it.”

“He should have given me points for the transfiguration,” grumped Tom. “Teague’s a whiny little girl.”

“No one’s debating that fact,” said Leo, “But I for one would like a decent chance at the House Cup this year.”

“Whatever,” Tom replied with a rude gesture and then turned to Hermione. “Dumbledore is completely, one hundred percent out to get me.” The other boys laughed.

“So what you’re saying,” said Hermione, “is that between Cheering Charms and Dumbledore, your Tuesdays are looking pretty grim?”

“Well they would be if it weren’t for defense. Sedgwick lets us duel for half the period.” Tom’s smile was downright predatory.

The others groaned.

“What?” Hermione thought that sounded like fun, actually.

“Sedgwick always makes one of us pair with Riddle, and Riddle’s a right bastard to duel,” explained Scorpius.

“He can’t be _that_ bad,” contested Hermione, and Tom’s grin grew, if anything, even larger.

“Right,” said Scorpius. “Then _you_ can partner with him, and the rest of us will sit back and laugh.” Leo and Edmond nodded.

“You lot coming?” Leslie and Patricia had stopped on their way out of the hall. “I want to see what Riddle does to piss off Dumbledore this year.”


	33. Part 2: "We weren't going to blow up the castle!"

3 September 1940

The mob of fourth-years made their way up to the Transfiguration classroom. Dumbledore was waiting with a cage of small tan-colored lizards. Hermione thought they were geckos. They had several assignments for the day, increasing in difficulty: turning their lizard into a snake, and back into a lizard; turning the lizard into a bird and back; turning the lizard into a mouse and back; and finally vanishing the lizard entirely.

Tom managed his snake transformation first, but then got distracted talking to it. He also stole Hermione’s snake once she managed the transformation, and only gave it back when she transfigured both snakes back to lizards.

Dumbledore did not notice any of this, as he was pre-occupied with correcting Leigh Teague’s lizard, which had grown three extra legs and had its head replaced by a second tail, and then with helping Melina Sparks, who really did know what she was doing, but had wanted Cameron Terrance’s assistance and (therefore) attention.

By the time Dumbledore was able to try to catch the eye of his least favorite student or his new little _friend_ , they were both transforming their lizards into birds and chatting about something quietly. This, Dumbledore thought, was very _odd_ , as he had never seen the young Mr. Riddle actually converse with any of his peers. He was certain that boy was _up_ to something.

The professor continued to try to catch his students’ eyes over the course of the class, managing it only once: after transforming his mouse back to a lizard, the girl had muttered something in the boy’s ear, and he had looked up, directly into Dumbledore’s line of sight. No sooner had the Professor entered the boy’s mind than he was fairly _assaulted_ by what seemed to be some sort of mental construct – a viper, rearing back to strike at him. Dumbledore pulled back at once, rather shaken at the degree to which the boy had been able to develop offensive Occlumency techniques without an advisor.

The girl managed to avoid his eye entirely. She vanished her lizard just before they reached the one-hour mark in the class, and summoned another from the cage, working through the lizard-snake transformation again, using, Dumbledore was impressed to see, only the Basics, with no incantation. Mr. Riddle then vanished his first lizard and one of them (Dumbledore suspected Riddle), had the bright idea to use _both_ of their lizards into one _larger_ snake. Dumbledore was just about near enough to address the troublemakers when the larger snake exploded.

The girl frowned and vanished the entrails that had coated every surface within ten feet, then made a note in her lab book: lizard + lizard =/= lg snake = explosion – WHY? E^ or ~? The boy blinked, apparently untroubled by the explosion of gore, and summoned another pair of lizards.

The entire class was looking at the two Slytherin students as the girl eagerly suggested, “What if we vanish one lizard and trap the energy in a Humbold’s, and then use _that_ to increase the mass and transform just _one_ lizard into a larger snake?”

“I don’t know,” said Riddle, apparently equally oblivious to the fact that they were being watched. “It just seems like if that sort of run-around would work, we should have been able to just combine the two masses outright.”

Dumbledore watched in bemused horror as the student who had consistently been the most trouble in all of his classes for three years argued with the American girl, who appeared, if such a thing was possible, to be _even more trouble than Riddle._

“I think it exploded because it was unstable, and the energy had to go somewhere once it started oscillating. If we only actually _transform_ one creature, it should be more stable, and using the Humbold as a stop-gap should control the energy fluctuation. Come on, I’ll cast the Humbold and key it to you if you do the transformations.”

Humbold’s Energy Suspension was a NEWT-level spell, and as with any energy containment spell, had the potential to exponentially increase the amount of energy involved, if not executed properly. Curious as Dumbledore was about this little experiment, he was not about to let a fourteen-year-old Slytherin girl blow up the East Wing. For the first time in three years, he found himself taking to task on the first day a student who was _not_ Tom Riddle.

“Miss Granger! Ten points from Slytherin and two nights’ detention in the Hospital Wing for instigating dangerous experimental transfigurations without proper supervision and consultation. You will report to Madam Turner tonight and tomorrow at eight o’clock.” And then, suppressing a smile, “Mr. Riddle! Twenty points from Slytherin. You of all people ought to know better!”

It might have been a bit vindictive on his part, Dumbledore thought, but he was almost certain that the interruption of his welcome speech to the third-year Slytherin and Ravenclaw students had been Riddle’s fault… somehow. And in any case, the boy deserved it for whatever unauthorized legilimency he had been practicing on Sunday.

“ _Great_ ,” muttered Scorpius Malfoy to the other Slytherins, “now there’s _two_ of them.”

 _My sentiments exactly, Mr. Malfoy_ , thought Dumbledore.

…

Hermione packed up all of her things, and sat fuming and avoiding Dumbledore’s gaze until the professor dismissed the class. She had never, she thought, been treated so unfairly in her life. This was a hell of a way to reward students for intellectual curiosity.

“Could be worse,” Tom said quietly. “He could have given you detentions with _himself_.”

“I wonder why he didn’t,” responded the girl.

“Probably doesn’t want to spend any more time with you than necessary, now that you’re a dangerous troublemaker,” suggested Edmond.

“Hey! Granger!” interrupted Scorpius, “When I asked Riddle not to antagonize the professor, how did you not realize that applied to you too?”

“I didn’t do anything antagonistic,” she snapped, distancing herself from the boys and instead following a knot of Hufflepuffs to their next class.

“The sad part is, I think she actually believes that,” said Leo.

Tom nodded, though none of the others noticed.


	34. Part 2: Tom's Favorite Professor

3 September 1940

Defense was always different, at least in Hermione’s experience.

She had had one year with a neurotic, stuttering fool who was sharing his brain with the Dark Lord ( _don’t think too hard about that one, Hermione_ ); one year with a vain, useless idiot who had lied and memory-charmed his way to fame and fortune; and one year with an exhausted and downtrodden werewolf. Presumably, she thought, the Defense professor in 1940, long before the position had been cursed, and in a time of war, would be competent. She therefore had no idea what to expect.

An empty dueling arena certainly, however, was not what she _had_ expected. There was a large, round stage, which currently had a lectern at one edge, surrounded by tiered seating, easily enough for the entire school to assemble at once. The professor was nowhere to be seen. The twenty-one fourth-year students sat in a loose bunch in front of the lectern. Tom and Hermione, either by chance, or as Hermione later thought, potentially by design on the part of Tom, were seated in the middle of the group.

The attack began quietly, with Thea Malfoy slumping over in her seat to lean on Amy Pond. Pond looked around, confused, just in time to be hit with a stunning spell of her own. Cameron, who had been surreptitiously watching Amy, was the one to realize they were under attack and spread the word to his fellows before falling himself. Tom dragged Hermione to the ground, telling her to crawl under the seats to the nearest stairs and, on his signal, make a distraction.

They crept away in opposite directions as their peers took cover behind seats, book bags, and in a few cases, weak _Protego_ charms. The Gryffindor contingent sent a few hexes of their own back in the direction of fire, but apparently did not hit their assailant, as they were picked off one at a time.

Tom sparked Hermione’s left hand and she popped up in the stairway, launching a barrage of hexes and several flights of conjured birds in the direction of their attacker as she charged up several rows. The first attack in her direction was deflected by a chance encounter with her own tooth-sharpening jinx, and the second by a moderately well executed shield charm, which shattered on impact. She dived under the next row of chairs, thinking that Tom was on his own for now.

Tom had apparently conjured a snake, or perhaps transfigured one, as the remaining students (Hermione, Tom, and two Hufflepuffs who were playing dead) heard muffled cursing about Parselmouths from the top of the room. Both Tom and Hermione took this moment of distraction to make their way to the top of the stairs. There they found an older man and the body of a surprisingly large snake, severed from its head. The professor vanished the snake and looked up to find himself between the wands of two very serious-looking fourteen-year-olds. They each began the wand movements for a stunner, and the professor dropped rather gracefully to the floor, twin spells arching over his head, each finding its mark on the other Slytherin.

…

There were days when Lawrence Sedgwick loved his job. The first day back to class was usually one of those days, he reflected, making his way to the lectern and casting a mass-revival on the students. They sat up, variously confused and angry.

“Welcome back, fourth-years. If I weren’t your professor, you could be dead,” he said mildly as the students returned to their seats. “Let’s talk about that. Ten points to Slytherin, by the way, you two. Well done, right up until the point you cast your stunners at the same time. That snake trick’s not likely to work twice, Tom.”

“That’s what you said last time, professor.” Tom smirked.

The professor rolled his eyes at his favorite fourth-year. He did appreciate students who went for the throat, and the boy was nothing if not ruthless. “So I did. Five more points for making me eat my words, then. Alright, you there, you’re new. What’s your name?”

“Hermione Granger, sir.”

“Right, nice shield charm, by the way. So for the rest of you, who apparently forgot this little exercise was coming over the break, and were sleeping down here on the floor, Tom and Hermione organized a two-pronged attack on my vantage point, and could have had me if they hadn’t cast their stunners at the same time, and gotten caught in the cross-fire. What did they do right? What did they do wrong? What could the _rest_ of you have done better to avoid being mock-slaughtered like cattle?”

Suggestions came from all students as they immediately adopted the _I could have done it better, if it had been me_ , stance, conveniently ignoring that it _had_ been them and they _hadn’t_ done better.

“Right, right, let’s start at the beginning. Say any of you had remembered my warning that I would be following up on this little exercise from the end of last term. Where would the most advantageous points have been, for you to position yourselves?”

The students eventually reached a consensus that they should have made a plan in advance, and spread themselves out in the higher tiers, or possibly have stationed only one or two agents in those tiers to strike at him as he attacked the defenseless huddle. If they hadn’t managed to plan that far out, they thought they should have cooperated better once they realized they were under attack. If the other students had managed a coordinated resistance, for example, Tom and Hermione would not have had to give up their positions so early, and might have succeeded in taking him out.

It was a start. The space and lower ground had worked against the students, but few of them seemed to have realized that with only one attacker, they could have easily spread themselves out even after they were under attack, to become more difficult targets, and that there was more value in moving than hiding when the enemy was using single-target spells. And, as Sedgwick noted, if he had sent a diffuse stunner at them, it would have taken them all out, “including you two, Lily, Ana, did you think I didn’t realize you were just faking it? You should be ashamed of yourselves.”

The discussion of better tactics lasted until four, at which point, Professor Sedgwick said, “Right then, now that we’re all warmed up, this is Defense Against the Dark Arts, and I’m Professor Sedgwick. This semester we will be focusing on battle tactics and strategy on Tuesdays, and learning key charms, counter jinxes, and counter curses, along with the curses you’re meant to be countering, on Thursdays.

“We’ll be working our way up over the course of the semester to demonstrations of the Unforgivables, and if anyone would like to try an Unforgivable on one of our test creatures, you may do so at that time with my supervision. If I find any of you have been mucking about with powers best left beyond your control in the meanwhile, I’ll have you flayed.” It might just have been their collective imagination, but the students thought their professor gave his favorite student a hard look at this point.

“Melees and battles will continue every other Saturday starting the first weekend in October. Sign-up sheets for Armies are posted on my office door. Hermione, ask one of this lot to explain all that to you, as I expect to see you there.

“Now then, who’s ready for some dueling?”

As they had an odd number of students, they were assigned to form groups of three, to fight to the last wizard standing. The rules were “You win when your opponents have given up or are unable to fight anymore, and don’t make me send anyone to the Hospital Wing. Kitty’s already pissed I sent three first-years and a sixth-year in yesterday. If you do something to an opponent you, personally, can’t _undo_ , you lose your match automatically, how’s that? Now group up before I make you group up.”

Hermione and Tom stood to one side and watched as the others frantically tried to avoid being in their group. Hermione looked somewhat concerned as Tammie and Cameron argued about who would last longer in a fight against Tom. “It’s like they don’t consider me a threat at all,” she whispered to Tom. He smirked.

Cameron lost. The three of them stood in a triangle near the center of the dueling stage. They bowed to the center of their triangle, and then Tom made an _after you_ sort of motion toward Cameron and bowed again to Hermione. She smiled, correctly interpreting this as an invitation to stun their uninvited third, and did so with barely a glance, curtsying to Tom with her wand at the ready. The two Slytherins circled each other around Cameron’s body for a moment.

Tom made the first move, and suddenly jinxes, conjured birds and bugs, and the occasional flame were flying thick through the air. The two were well matched, Sedgwick thought, Tom being somewhat stronger as far as raw magical power was concerned, but Hermione being more skilled at shields and counter-jinxes, and more creative in her use of generally non-destructive spells, such as summoning Tom’s socks and levitating his wand mid-spell.

There were several close calls, but their battle quickly became one of attrition, and as the other duels ground to a halt, the rest of the class stopped to watch. After twenty minutes, both combatants breathing hard and Hermione nearing magical exhaustion, but hiding it valiantly, Tom sought to end it by distracting her in a key moment by pulling her consciousness into his mind.

The distraction worked. Hermione froze on suddenly seeing herself from Tom’s point of view. What Sedgwick saw was only a momentary pause, a single beat in their dance, but she mis-stepped, and found herself the victim of a tongue-swelling jinx. She collapsed to the stage, nearly done in, and cast a wordless _finite_ on her mouth as Tom walked over to stun her and win the match. Her whispered _stupefy_ caught him on the ankle, and as she watched him fall, the world went black from magical exhaustion.

Sedgwick couldn’t help but clap, even though neither student could hear him. It was the best duel, bar none, that he had seen in any of the classes that week. He honestly could not decide which student deserved the win. After all, Hermione _had_ finally taken out Tom, at the end, but had worked herself into exhaustion to do so, and would most likely have to spend a few hours recuperating in the Hospital Wing, which, it must be said, was not the most effective long-term battle strategy. He decided to have the two students moved to the edge of the arena. If either managed to wake up before the end of the class period, that one would win. If not, it would be a tie.

Unfortunately neither student recovered in the remaining twenty minutes of class. After the rest of the fourth-years dispersed, Sedgwick revived Tom and told him to either revive Hermione, or take her to the Hospital Wing. Tom opted to revive the girl himself, rather than deal with Madam Turner, who was still holding a grudge over a certain prank the previous year, and was not likely to look fondly on him for driving another student into magical exhaustion on the second day of classes. His _enervate_ failed to prod her back to consciousness, so he attempted a _vis datio_ , a ritual which was generally used only in life-or-death situations to transfer vital energy between two people, took nearly half an hour to complete, and nearly threw _him_ into magical exhaustion, but did in fact revive his opponent.

Sedgwick was somewhat surprised that Tom, who was, he thought, the quintessential Slytherin, and terribly unlikely to research self-sacrifice spells for fun, even _knew_ the _vis datio_ , let alone that he managed to carry it out successfully on the first try. Hermione sat up with a groan, and said that it felt like she’d been sat upon by an elephant. Tom replied that he felt like he’d been kicked in the head by one. Sedgwick had been planning to make them discuss their duel and what they should have done instead, but took pity on them and let them go to dinner, under orders to take double portions of everything, especially dessert, to take things easy for the next couple days, and to come to the Dueling Club meeting Sunday evening.


	35. Part 2: After the Duel

3 September 1940

 “All right, pay up!” said Edmond to the other Slytherin boys as they made their way out of the dueling theater.

“What? No way. That doesn’t prove anything,” said Leo.

“That fight was awfully cutthroat for two people who are supposedly in love,” Scorpius pointed out to Leo.

“What are you talking about?” asked Aggie. She couldn’t help overhearing what she suspected was a bet regarding her wayward lab partners.

“We,” Scorpius explained, “have a pool going on what the hell Hermione did to Riddle over the summer. He’s been almost like a normal person since we got back—”

“Well, normal compared to the usual Riddle,” interrupted Edmond.

“Well, yeah. Not _normal_ normal. But at least not nearly as creepy and weird as before. So. Eddy thinks that she won him over by being clever, I think she’s even crazier than he is, and Leo’s put a galleon on Riddle being in love.”

“He _let her put her arm around him_ ,” said Leo, immediately defending his bet, “and _didn’t hex her over it_. She laughs at his comments. I was watching them on the train, too. He almost _smiled_ at a couple of things she was saying about America.”

“If that’s even where she’s from,” inserted Edmond.

“Every time we’ve seen them, they’ve been whispering to each other and messing around. It’s _weird._ ”

“Yeah, but that could mean anything. And didn’t you say, Leo, that he carved her back up with a knife, and she was still hanging around him after? Completely insane, I’m telling you,” said Scorpius.

“He tried to teach her _Parseltongue_. He _loves_ being special. You can’t honestly think that he’d try to teach anyone to do something that makes him different if he wasn’t head over heels.”

“I think _he_ thinks she’s smart enough to bother trying to teach,” countered Edmond.

“You’re forgetting Dumbledore’s class,” said Scorpius. “‘Instigating dangerous experimental transfigurations,’ I think it was? That was all her. And she didn’t even blink when she bloody well atomized those lizards all over us.”

“Have you seen the Ravenclaws when they get in an experimenting mood?”

“Yeah, well, I maintain they’re all insane as well.”

“He may have a point, Scorp. What about Charms? She seemed genuinely concerned about him,” offered Leo.

“Bloody wanker just fell out of a chair. Can you believe him? Taking a nap on the first _day_?”

“Besides,” Edmond pointed out, “The bet’s over why he’s acting like a real person around her, not whether _she_ cares about _him_.”

“I’m with Eddy,” said Aggie, after a moment. “You lot didn’t see them yesterday morning in Potions. They started working on our Polyjuice and Riddle was actually following her lead. She didn’t even look at the instructions. And it was _perfect_. Exactly on track. There’s no way he listens to _anyone_ if he doesn’t think they’re at least as smart as he is.”

“Yeah,” countered Scorpius, “but you _know_ Riddle doesn’t think anyone’s as smart as he is.”

“ _Unless_ she somehow found a way to prove it. Anyway, he chose her to go after Sedgwick with him, and she totally just tricked him into that draw. She’s smarter. I win,” declared Edmond.

“Even if she _is_ smarter, that doesn’t mean she’s found a way to prove it to Riddle, or that that’s why he’s been acting like a halfway normal person this year.”

“Give it up, Leo. What in the last three years of living with that weirdo has given you any indication at all that Riddle is capable of actual _affection_ for _anyone_? Nothing. He hasn’t got a romantic bone in his body. I don’t even think he’s interested in girls.”

“What? You don’t mean…” Aggie smiled at the prospect of fresh gossip.

“Actually, no, I don’t,” said Scorpius. “Boys would be too normal for Riddle. I personally think if it’s not bleeding or in pain, or possibly a snake, he’s not interested. You didn’t see the look on his face when Lina broke her arm in that Quidditch match last year. The bone was poking out and there was blood everywhere, and he was just _fascinated_ …” he shuddered, and Aggie looked slightly sick. She remembered the incident, and didn’t like blood. “You should keep your cousin away from him, Leo. I’ve seen the way she looks at him.”

“Ugh, no, I’m hoping he’ll kill her for me. She’s been a huge pain in the ass since we got off the train.”

“Wait,” said Edmond, “Did you say you’d already started your Polyjuice?”

“Yeah. Something like five minutes ago. Way to keep up with the conversation.”

“Shut up, Leo. Why?”

“Something about the timing, and lacewings, and the full moon in two weeks. Do you think I know? I’m fully planning to sit back and let Hermione and Riddle do all the work.”

“I can’t decide if I envy you or pity you,” said Scorpius.

“Save your pity for the rest of us, Scorp,” Edmond responded. “I don’t think we’re going to like the reason the two smartest people in our class thought it was important to start their potion yesterday…”

…

Tom and Hermione were leaning heavily on each other by the time they reached the Great Hall, still carrying their bags, having decided that it simply wasn’t worth it to climb the extra four flights of stairs to their dorm and back. Hermione’s bones felt like they had been filled with hot lead, and Tom’s head was pounding. They collapsed onto a bench at the Slytherin table, absolutely not caring that they had sat down in the midst of the second-years rather than the fourth-years, and dug in.

Forty minutes later, somewhat revived by the food (and extra dessert), they felt well enough to find the other fourth-years (and Bella) and hear a recounting of their epic battle (the boys were very impressed, though Hermione did have to admit that they had told her so: Tom was a bastard to duel), and, more importantly, who had won. Their twin groans when Edmond told them that it had been a draw were too much for Bella, who collapsed in a fit of giggles.

“Remind me to hex that child tomorrow,” said Hermione to the group at large, and then excused herself, as she still had a detention to deal with, and needed to return to the dorm first. Tom stayed to have a third slice of pie and listen to the others talk about their own duels.

…

Hermione had never thought she would be so relieved to have real wards in place, simply because she was too tired to re-activate the lightning hex she had been using. She dropped off her book bag and dragged herself back to the first floor and the Hospital Wing, arriving just before eight.

The matron, Madam Turner, understandably thought she was reporting for treatment, and it took a good five minutes of tired and confused explaining before she understood that the exhausted fourth-year was reporting for detention.

“What happened to you, then, might I ask?”

“I got into a duel with Tom Riddle?”

The matron scowled, handing the girl a vial of Pepper-up Potion, the standard keep-you-on-your-feet cure-all. “And where is Mr. Riddle?”

“I imagine he’s back in the Common Room by now,” said Hermione with a yawn. “Why?”

“Because I can’t see my way clear to punishing only you when you clearly got the worse end of the deal.”

“Oh, I won. Besides, I think this makes us even after the Cheering Charm thing… And this isn’t about that, anyway. That was for class,” she yawned again, as Kitty wondered exactly what one could do with a Cheering Charm that would necessitate someone getting even. “Defense.” _Lawrence!_ “This, the detention, is because I wanted to try a mass-changing transfiguration with a vanishment and a Humbold’s and Professor Dumbledore thought I was going to blow up the castle. I’m to report here tomorrow as well,” she added belatedly.

The matron raised an eyebrow. “That is rather a lot to coordinate.” Though she was highly impressed that the girl would even have considered such a project, she thought it was probably just as well that Dumbledore had been prevented her from trying it. She was only a fourth-year, after all.

“Well, I was going to have Tom do the vanishment and the transfiguration while I handled the Humbold. It would have been fine. It was only twenty grams or so. And we only blew up the one snake.”

The second eyebrow joined the first. Tom Riddle had found a lab partner for his mad hijinks? And one who was willing to try NEWT level transfigurations on a whim? They were doomed. “And this was before or after you dueled each other into exhaustion?”

“Before, of course. Even Tom wouldn’t risk a Humbold after _that_. And I don’t think I’ve the magic left to do a _lumos._ ”

“Well thank the Lords of Light for small favors. I can’t say I’ve much for you to do if you haven’t any magic, though. We don’t even have any overnighters to keep an eye on yet.”

“I figured I’d be brewing potions. Pepper-up or bruise balm or something.”

The matron shook her head. “Professor Slughorn’s just topped up our supply over the summer. Oh, I know! You can double check the inventory, linens, bandages, potions, the lot of it. Make sure all the potions are organized properly and so on. It shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours. I’ll let you go at nine and you can finish tomorrow.”

“All right. Is there a list?”

The matron handed her a scroll, showed Hermione to the potions stock before bustling off to her office to write a strongly worded note to Lawrence Sedgwick, for either allowing his students to beat each other into exhaustion, or for not sending them to her after. She hadn’t decided yet. Maybe both.

Kitty returned at nine to find more than half of the items on the scroll ticked off, the first three racks of potions rotated so that the older vials were in front, and her charge asleep on the floor, propped up between the wall and the cabinet. She woke the girl with a smile and a wink that said, “I won’t tell Albus if you won’t,” and sent her back to the dungeons.

A house-elf delivered a note to Sedgwick in his quarters at 9:05. He could not for the life of him tell if Kit was flirting with him again, or legitimately angry this time. _Women!_

…

Hermione returned to her dorm, and, as on the previous night, fell asleep almost immediately. She woke with her alarm at what was quickly becoming the usual time, feeling much more energetic than she had the previous night, only to realize that she had not found time to look into the state of Arithmantic analysis before passing out.

Her first words to Tom on reaching the Great Hall were, “I need you to tell me everything you covered in Arithmancy last year. Because of reasons.”


	36. Part 2: The Forgotten Essay and the Impossible Task

4 September 1940

Tom was not in the best of moods when Hermione turned up at breakfast on Wednesday, having gone to bed early after the ill-conceived _vis datio_ rather than stay up an extra hour to write Shylock’s essay: ten inches on the relative value of Hieratic versus Hieroglyphic Egyptian scripts for warding purposes. It was an easy topic, but it still required time to write. He was scribbling it out at the table, between bites of egg and toast.

“I need you to tell me everything you covered in Arithmancy last year. Because of reasons.”

‘Because of reasons’ meant that there was something about the secret that Hermione was from the future at stake. But Tom was busy, and there was plenty of time to fill her in before three. “You can read over my notes at lunch if you let me read your Runes essay.”

Hermione made a noise like a cat being stepped on, and Tom finally looked up. She looked, he thought, slightly more frazzled than usual.

“Runes essay!”

“Yes, Runes essay. Ten inches. Hieratic versus Hieroglyphs for wards – which is more effective and why?”

“I can’t believe I forgot we had a Runes essay! I’m Hermione Granger! I don’t _forget_ homework!”

“Calm down or I’m going to use a silencing jinx on you.”

She was, Tom thought, being quite hysterical, over something that she could fix in the forty-five minutes remaining before Potions, if she would just shut up and do it. He hit her with a tongue-tying jinx under the table and told her so, before returning to his own essay.

_In conclusion, Hieroglyphs are preferable for wards which depend on integration of multiple languages or integrating multiple functions into a single ward, while Hieratic is superior when the Egyptian ward is a stand-alone contrivance, meant to be layered or enmeshed but not fully integrated with other parts of the ward-structure._

He re-read his page, replaced ‘parts’ with ‘aspects’, and decided that it was good enough. It was the first day, after all. It didn’t do to set _too_ high a standard to live up to the rest of the term.

He looked up to see that Hermione was now writing quite frantically herself. Her handwriting was tiny, and she had already filled nearly three inches. He shrugged and pulled out their shared Potions Manual to review the next steps of the Polyjuice Potion. He fully intended to let Hermione take the lead again – it was so much easier having a _competent_ lab partner, he’d had no idea – but it wouldn’t do to just show up and not know where they were starting, or at least the general steps.

He hated to admit it, but even if he had been allowed, he probably couldn’t have produced the potion alone, at least not without several days’ prep-work on the ingredients, which would have been very tricky, as some of them had to be freshly prepared. Prepping and brewing simultaneously, as Hermione had done on Monday, required both an excellent sense of timing and at least two sets of hands. He wondered idly how she had managed it the first time, and then decided that that had probably also been a factor in the timing corrections and reversals she had had to make. He still found it unbelievable that she’d managed it.

The Post arrived and Tom looked up to see that Hermione had reached about eight inches, and had written probably twice as many words as he had, already. “Come on, Hermione. We need to get to the lab before Slughorn. You can finish that later.”

“Fine, I’m coming. Just let me –” she added another line, then dried the ink with a quick _secare_ , and shoved the page into her bag.

Tom stood and started walking toward the door, but slowly enough that she could catch up, which she did, with a piece of toast in one hand and an apple in the other, muttering about distractions.

…

Potions commenced with Slughorn telling the class to have at it. Tom retrieved their potion from its warded storage cupboard, and Hermione ordered Aggie, who had finally finished reading the instructions, to work on preparing the day’s ingredients. When the Gryffindor girl asked what those would be, Hermione grabbed her Potions Manual and marked the twenty steps they needed to accomplish that day, circling the ingredients, and then added twelve diced Marfain’s Caterpillars and three silkworm cocoons, slightly teased, in the margin.

“Start with the ingredients I’ve circled, in order. Go as quickly as you can while maintaining your accuracy. Timing is important, but poorly prepared or irregularly sized ingredients can throw off the timing just as much as being slow to add the next thing, and irregularities are much harder to correct for. The Marfain’s and cocoons will be to get the delay period right, along with the other half of that slowstone from Monday.”

“Very _good_ , Miss Granger!” Hermione jumped. Slughorn moved very _quietly_ for such a large man. “I couldn’t have said it better myself. Tell me, my dear, who was your old Potions master?”

“Oh, um. I was, erm, homeschooled, professor. My mother… was a bit of a potions enthusiast?” Tom smirked at Hermione’s fumbled cover-story. She really was terrible at lying to authorities.

“Was she indeed? Would I have heard of her?”

“I don’t think so, professor. We lived in Virginia, after all, and she did not publish on Potions.” _Better,_ thought Tom.

“Ah, well. And I see your group began on Monday. _Very_ good. Can you tell me why, Miss Bones?”

Aggie looked as though she would happily sink through the floor as the Potions Master focused on her.

“The… the full moon is important, and we need to add the lacewings two weeks from today?”

Slughorn nodded. Clearly the Gryffindor was not the mastermind behind the advanced state of the potion.

“Mr. Riddle? Care to make a stab at it?”

“The longest delay in the brewing of Polyjuice is the one-month simmering period after the Lacewings are added. The second-longest is often the fact that the Lacewings need to be added within three days of their harvest, and can only be collected under the full moon. As the full moon is on the 16th, we could either have started on Monday and had a decent chance to reach the Lacewing stage by the 18th, or we could have waited until today to start and risked an improper step, which would mean we would have to put the potion under full arrest while we wait for the _next_ full moon, extending the brewing period by a month and drastically increasing the overall difficulty of the remainder of the process as _reversing_ a full arrest increases the volatility of any potion at least three-fold.” Tom sounded bored as he rattled this off.

“Very good. Very good indeed! And if I were to tell you that the purpose of beginning today was to give you experience in dealing with more volatile potions in the latter half of the process?”

“I actually want this to _work_ , so I’d say we’d use Carson’s Restricturing,” said Hermione, irritated at the implication that the class had been purposefully doomed to failure. “If you will excuse us, professor,” she added with a quick _tempus_ , “We need to move on with the Polyjuice. We had planned to resume fifteen minutes ago, and I don’t have enough newts’ tongues onhand to pull it back if it goes off at this point.”

“Alright, my girl, fair enough,” said Slughorn, faintly amused. Carson’s Restricturing Compound was an alchemical additive, used to lower the reactivity of potions which would otherwise be too dangerous or physically impossible to brew due to high volatility. It required a very high level of precision to produce, and was generally only used with NEWT-level projects. It would not be _technically_ necessaryto accomplish a successful Polyjuice, even after a full arrest, but might, he would allow, be slightly easier than managing the timing of the accelerated Polyjuice reactions, especially in concert with the Draught of Tennyson. “I leave it in your capable hands. And ten points to Slytherin for thinking ahead.”

“What’s that then, the Carson’s thing?” asked Aggie, as Slughorn moved to the next group. She was diligently powdering ladybug wing shells.

“It’s an alchemical compound used to reduce the reaction speed of a potion,” drawled Tom, “and it’s _ferociously_ difficult to make. If we had started today and then fucked this up, we’d have been better off waiting a few weeks to try again.”

Hermione snorted, thinking unkind thoughts about Potions Professors who liked to see their students fail. “Yes we would be, and I was serious about needing to get started. Tom, crack the crystalized layer and toss a dozen newts’ tongues into the mix, then melt the rest of the crystals with the Natron, and set the flame to the highest setting. Two drops of Salamandare blood, stirring eight times clockwise at double time, and that should bring us back on track for Step Seventeen. All glass stirring rods, from now until after we’ve added the lacewings, remember.”

They maintained a furious pace for the next hour and a half, Tom and Hermione keeping their talking to a minimum with all their class and Slughorn present. Aggie prepped the day’s ingredients, and then, at Hermione’s direction, the ingredients that could be prepared ahead of time for the following Monday. Tom took over the physical brewing, adding and stirring ingredients and managing the temperature and pressure spells. Hermione managed the timing, monitored the various color changes of the potion, suggested the occasional tweak to the instructions in the Manual to accommodate for Tom’s slightly-faster-than-average stirring speeds, and researched the brewing processes for the Tennyson and Felix potions, working out the most efficient way to address them within the class structure.

“It would go even faster than this, if we had started today?” asked Aggie, after she had finished prepping Monday’s ingredients and sealed them to Hermione’s satisfaction. She was watching Tom execute a particularly complex stirring pattern after adding a single cockatrice’s feather.

Hermione looked up from the atmospheric calculations which would ensure the potion was at the correct stage the following Monday. “Not the stirring and so on, but there would be almost no time between steps. It’s technically _possible_ that it could be done without the Carson’s Compound. Slughorn might be able to do it, but we certainly couldn’t, and I meant it when I said I wanted this to work. On the other hand, I don’t think we could make a Carson’s Restricturing Compound, either. It would be better to beg for an extension and start something else while we waited to try a do-over. I don’t think anyone else’s is going to be even acceptable,” she added, looking around at their peers.

The two nearest groups had already made mistakes that would mean the failure of their potion in the end, if not corrected before the lacewings were added, and they didn’t seem to have noticed. The Ravenclaws were almost at the blue-green stage where their group had stopped on Monday, but their potion was rather too blue. The Slytherins, on the other side, had an acid-green brew that was smoking slightly. Hermione was almost certain the Ravenclaws could correct their potion with a few counterclockwise stirs and a grain of snapdragon pollen, but the Slytherin boys would, she though, be better off starting over. Lily, Ana, and Amy had managed to spill their poppymilk into a flame right at the beginning of the class, and consequently they, the other Hufflepuff group, and the Gryffindor boys were somewhat giggly and slow, the effects of the smoke taking some time to wear off. Hermione couldn’t see their potions, but suspected they should consider re-starting as well.

“I think Slughorn wanted us to fail,” said Tom. “Dippet probably doesn’t want seven gallons of Polyjuice floating around the castle.”

“One counterclockwise turn, Tom. You were half a second fast in that last pattern.”

Tom rolled his eyes, but complied. He personally thought his stirring speed was fine, but he couldn’t argue with Hermione’s results, and their potion _was_ just the right shade of pale orange. A slight cloudiness cleared infinitesimally with the additional stir.

They added the reaction-delaying ingredients, the slowstone dissolving into the mixture this time, and the silk forming a partial “lid,” as the caterpillars congealed around it, slowing the oxidization of the potion through its reduced surface area. Hermione made sure to set the atmospheric controls on their storage cubby to allow oxygen to flow freely between their cupboard and the rest of the lab, and they set the potion aside. If all went well, it would be a light golden color by Monday, and they would still be on track to add the lacewings in two weeks.

They wrapped up at quarter to ten, and puttered around tidying their workstation until their classmates were ready to head to History. There wasn’t really much point, after all, in leaving without them, since Binns would hold class until they were all present.

While they waited, Hermione demanded her notebook back. Tom’s duplication and linking project could wait, she thought, and it would be more convenient to use smaller books, anyway. He handed it over reluctantly, and she quickly scribbled an explanation that only he could read. He nodded at the idea of using smaller notebooks, and penned his own response – he would send an elf to fetch a couple of journals from Scriveners’ in Hogsmeade. Hermione marveled at the fact that no one had mentioned to her in the course of three years at Hogwarts that the elves would run errands and so on for the students when they didn’t have to. It was still _wrong_ of course, to keep them enslaved, but she was beginning to think that maybe Fred and George had had a point when they argued that the elves really _did_ like their jobs, and the students.

“What are you two passing notes about?” asked Aggie. She was quite put out that her lab partners, who had been so talkative on Monday, had more or less refused to hold a conversation with her all morning. They had shot down her previous attempts to discuss their duel in Defense, upcoming homework in Divination, and even whether they would be going to Hogsmeade on the last Saturday of the month.

“Nothing,” said Hermione, looking terribly guilty.

“Not the forbidden transfiguration experiment or anything that would give Sedgwick cause to flay me,” said Tom with his usual smirk.

“You know what,” the Gryffindor backtracked, “I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to know. If you two blow up the castle or enslave half of Slytherin with the Imperius Curse, I want to be able to say honestly that I had no idea what you were up to.”

“Do you think I could actually Imperius half of Slytherin?” Tom asked Hermione, in the same tone that he had suggested an Animal Polyjuice Variation on Monday.

“What? No. That’s at least twenty-five people. No. And also, no. That’s not okay to joke about. Aggie, don’t give him _ideas_!”

“What if I started with that little twit Aspic?”

“No. Tempting, but _no_. Remember how Sedgwick was going to flay you?”

“He wouldn’t have to know.”

“Ah, but now you’ve talked about it in front of a witness.”

Tom gave Aggie an evaluative look. “I’ll Cruciatus her into madness. Might as well, if we’re playing with Unforgivables.”

“ _Still_ not okay to joke about.”

“Why not? And who says I’m joking?”

Aggie looked back and forth between the two of them. “You’re having me on, aren’t you?”

“Yes, of course,” said Tom, straight-faced.

“I’m honestly not sure,” said Hermione.

Tom grinned, and made a scoreboard in Hermione’s notebook, giving himself a point with a tally-mark.

Fil, Cherie, and Leigh finally finished cleaning up their workspace, and the fourth-years moved en-masse to History, the vast majority complaining about the state of their potions, and considering whether they should just start over.

Hermione and Tom stayed quiet, but Aggie went and told the rest of the class that her partners had said that Slughorn designed the project so they would fail. After variously debating whether Tom and Hermione could be trusted (Slytherins), whether they were likely to be correct (Ravenclaws), and why Slughorn would do something so deviously unfair (Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs) for a couple of staircases, the students united in indignation directed at their potions professor. Cameron had just asked their two informants _how_ Slughorn had set them up to fail when they reached the History classroom.

Hermione spoke on their behalf: “We’re not going to tell you. You ought to be able to figure it out for yourselves. And Aggie, you’re a _terrible_ Slytherin.”

“That would be because I’m a Gryffindor.”

“It’s an insult,” said Scorpius, helpfully.

Hermione rolled her eyes at Scorpius. It was, but it was a friendly one, at least in this case, since it had little sting for anyone outside Slytherin House. “ _Thank_ you, Malfoy. I’m certain the girl who’s attended this school for the last three years did not understand that the girl who’s been here for three days said something mildly insulting.” She turned to Aggie. “You started this, and you were there for our whole conversation, so _you_ can explain it.” And she walked into the classroom, refusing to say another word on the subject.

“Is it just me, or did Riddle’s voice just come out of Granger’s mouth?” Scorpius asked Edmond as they filtered toward their seats.


	37. Part 2: Negotiating Vows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is kind of tedious, but it's more Hermione manipulating Tom without his even realizing it, so I left it in.

4 September 1940

Binns was waiting, and the students settled in for his lecture on Arthur and Merlin and the unification of Magical Britons. Hermione made the occasional note, but she was familiar with the story, having read several books on the subject when she found out that Merlin had been _real_. She spent most of the class period working on the Vows of Alliance she wanted Tom to swear. Normally she would never have considered _not_ paying attention to a lecture, but there were simply not enough hours in this week. She would cheerfully have, well, not murdered someone, but definitely stolen a time turner for a bit of spare time, if they had existed yet.

Vows of Alliance generally had three parts: An agreement to come to aid; an agreement to cooperate and uphold shared goals; and a vow of mutual loyalty or non-betrayal.

There was nothing wrong with the first or second points of the outline. Even Tom wouldn’t find fault with cooperation in the pursuit of _shared_ goals. The problem came in when trying to hold someone with no sense of loyalty, she suspected, in the context of other people, to a non-betrayal agreement. In fact, she was beginning to think that it might be better to just replace the loyalty phrases with a secrecy pact, which evoked specific actions.

She also didn’t want anything that was irreversible. If she couldn’t stop Tom from becoming Lord Voldemort, she certainly didn’t want to be tied to him forever. So she had included the optional fourth section: the conditions for dissolution – terms under which both of them would be released from the vow with no consequences.

By the one-hour mark, she had come up with two vows:

  1.        _I vow by my magic to protect [Tom Marvolo Riddle/Hermione Jean Granger] from physical, metaphysical, and mental harm to the full extent of my ability._  
I vow by my magic assist, to the full extent of my ability, when [Tom Marvolo Riddle/Hermione Jean Granger] demands aid in furthering [his/her] goals, should those goals not interfere with my own.   
I vow by my magic that, should I refuse aid under the previous clause, I will explain to the best of my abilities the conflict of interest, and attempt to resolve such conflict.  
I vow by my magic that, should our goals no longer accord, I will inform my ally of the dissolution of this alliance in such a way that my former ally will not immediately be drawn into physical, metaphysical, or mental danger.   
These vows to bind me until ended by the irreversible and irreconcilable divergence of the goals of [Tom Marvolo Riddle/Hermione Jean Granger] and my own, or until death and beyond. Twice and thrice sworn in the eyes of the Powers and my Ally, on my magic, so mote it be.  
  

  2. _I vow by my magic to maintain all secrets shared with me in confidence by [Tom Marvolo Riddle/Hermione Jean Granger], to deny all knowledge proceeding from such secrets, and in such cases as I cannot in good faith conceal such knowledge, I vow never to reveal the source of said knowledge. These vows to bind me to death and beyond, twice and thrice sworn in the eyes of the Powers and my Ally, on my magic, so mote it be._



Those were the vows she thought she could convince Tom to swear to. The first covered Tom seriously hurting her physically or through the blood bond, encouraged both of them to help the other keep the vow, as it would strip them of their magic should they fail to hold to it, and ensured that each would aid the other against external threats like Dumbledore’s legilimency; consistently allowed outs so that neither of them would lose their magic over circumstances beyond their control; and allowed outs for conflicts of interests, provided the conflict was explained and he didn’t try to entrap her on dissolving their alliance. The second, which she had separated out so that it could not be dissolved if they decided to go their separate ways, allowed Tom to _use_ any information she provided on time travel and the future, as long as he did not give her up as the source of the knowledge, and never explicitly said what he knew. It would similarly allow her to use any knowledge found in the Chamber, or that they discovered together in their experiments in secret, as long as she did not name Tom as the source of that knowledge, and she would have to disavow the knowledge if she couldn’t find it out from another source.

She did not, however, think that he would _want_ to swear any vow without finding at least one or two points of contention. She went back, therefore, and added several lines which she would be prepared to lose in negotiations.

  1.        _I vow by my magic to protect [Tom Marvolo Riddle/Hermione Jean Granger] from physical, metaphysical, mental, and_ **emotional** harm to the full extent of my ability.   
I vow by my magic assist, to the full extent of my ability, when [Tom Marvolo Riddle/Hermione Jean Granger] demands aid in furthering [his/her] goals, should those goals not interfere with my own.   
I vow by my magic that, **I will reveal all my goals to [Tom Marvolo Riddle/Hermione Jean Granger], including new goals as I resolve them** , and should I refuse aid under the previous clause, I will explain to the best of my abilities the conflict of interest, and attempt to resolve such conflict.  
**I vow by my magic to truthfully tell [Tom Marvolo Riddle/Hermione Jean Granger] any knowledge I have which impacts [his/her] goals as I know it, should sharing that information not hinder my pursuit of my own stated goals.  
I vow by my magic that I will consult with [Tom Marvolo Riddle/Hermione Jean Granger] as I develop my goals and my methods for attaining said goals, and that I will take [his/her] consultation under advisement.**  
I vow by my magic that, should our goals no longer accord, I will inform my ally of the dissolution of this alliance in **an amicable and peaceable fashion**.   
These vows to bind me until ended by the irreversible and irreconcilable divergence of the goals of [Tom Marvolo Riddle/Hermione Jean Granger] and my own, or until death and beyond. Twice and thrice sworn in the eyes of the Powers and my Ally, on my magic, so mote it be.  
  

  2. _I vow by my magic to maintain all secrets confided to me by [Tom Marvolo Riddle/Hermione Jean Granger], and to **never act on any** knowledge proceeding from such secrets, **unless the knowledge can be safely attributed to another source**. These vows to bind me to death and beyond, twice and thrice sworn in the eyes of the Powers and my Ally, on my magic, so mote it be._



There were several points that _she_ didn’t actually want to agree to, such as the bit about revealing all goals and never acting on any knowledge she might gain from one of Tom’s secrets, but she was fairly certain that he would demand she “re-write” those parts. They would have to define _secrets_ , but at least that was a concept Tom could understand. She briefly considered promoting the line about consultation to something she would fight for, and then decided that it was just common sense, really. And she could demand the truth under the umbrella of rendering aid.

Binns dismissed the class as she finished copying the “rough draft” of the vows onto a fresh piece of parchment. She passed it to Tom as they made their way to lunch, and told him to mark his comments and give it back later.

…

Hermione ate quickly as she finished her essay on hieratic and Hieroglyphic scripts. She had, of course, read the text book already, and she had found several theoretical notes on the two scripts as she was looking for basic wards for her bedroom in Slytherin.

_Should the ward be meant to stand alone, or in a singular capacity, hieratic is preferable, as the interconnected form of hieratic script can be considered a proxy for the interwoven nature of traditional wards, and is less easily broken by physical disruption of the symbols, as they are fundamentally conceptually “of a part”. This renders a single hieratic ward equally or more functional in some capacities when compared to a more complex integrated braid of isolated symbols such as hieroglyphs. Containment, such as of sound, is the traditional example. Hieroglyphs, in contrast, are more flexible, and can be more easily modified post-activation. They also integrate more easily with non-Egyptian runes, for purposes such as summoning (Mayan), multi-purpose wards (Ogham, Futhark), or any enchantment-diagram._

She finished around half-past, and announced to the table that now she just needed to know what had been covered in Arithmancy last term, and she would be set for the afternoon. Edmond and Leo, neither of whom, apparently, was very good with muggle maths, complained at length about the algebra and geometry they had had to learn, and bemoaned how little magic they had actually done. After nearly ten minutes of this, Tom finally silenced them by telling Hermione that they mostly used readouts from Tierankoff’s Analytikar and mirror-traps to break down the basic charms, and that Russell was a big fan of classical arithmantic theory, so she would get full marks even if she never used any theorem more recent than the 1700s in her proofs. The other boys confirmed this, and Hermione, exasperated, asked why he couldn’t have told her that at breakfast.

“Because I wasn’t awake yet,” was his answer. He tucked the parchment with his comments on the vows into her pocket as the group rose to head to Runes.

…

Hermione read Tom’s comments as they walked:

**Powers That Be, Granger, you write like a solicitor. I should have guessed.**

  1. _I vow by my magic to protect [Tom Marvolo Riddle/Hermione Jean Granger] from_ **irreversible** _physical, metaphysical, mental, and ~~emotional~~ _**I’m not going to swear to protect you from getting “sad” and all harm is too broad.** _harm to the full extent of my ability.  
I vow by my magic assist, to the full extent of my ability, when [Tom Marvolo Riddle/Hermione Jean Granger] demands aid in furthering [his/her] goals, should those goals not interfere with my own. _**fine** _  
I vow by my magic that, ~~I will reveal all my goals to [Tom Marvolo Riddle/Hermione Jean Granger], including new goals as I resolve them~~ , ~~and~~ should I refuse aid under the previous clause, I will explain to the best of my abilities the conflict of interest, and attempt to resolve such conflict. _**Explaining, fine, if it’s not a life or death, time sensitive situation, but I think that would be outside my ability to deal with anyway… I’m not going to tell you everything I think of maybe doing. How much time do you think I have in my day?** _  
~~I vow by my magic to truthfully tell [Tom Marvolo Riddle/Hermione Jean Granger] any knowledge I have which impacts [his/her] goals as I know it, should sharing that information not hinder my pursuit of my own stated goals.~~ _**No, same reason as above. Way too much could potentially be related to your goals or mine.** _  
I vow by my magic that I will consult with [Tom Marvolo Riddle/Hermione Jean Granger] as I develop my goals and my methods for attaining said goals, and that I will take [his/her] consultation under advisement._ **Would have anyway (congratulations on having proved you’re not an idiot), so fine. Doesn’t mean I have to do what you say.** _  
I vow by my magic that, should our goals no longer accord, I will inform my ally of the dissolution of this alliance in an **“** amicable **”** and **“** peaceable **”** fashion. _**What the hell is that supposed to mean?** __  
These vows to bind me until ended by the irreversible and irreconcilable divergence of the goals of [Tom Marvolo Riddle/Hermione Jean Granger] and my own, or until death and beyond. Twice and thrice sworn in the eyes of the Powers and my Ally, on my magic, so mote it be.  
  

  2. **Presumably separate so if our goals diverge, we still have to keep each other’s secrets? Fine.** _I vow by my magic to maintain all secrets confided to me by [Tom Marvolo Riddle/Hermione Jean Granger], and to never act on any knowledge proceeding from such secrets, unless the knowledge can be safely attributed to another source. _**There has to be a better way to put this. This would make it way too hard to do further research and come up with “other sources” for certain types of knowledge.** _These vows to bind me to death and beyond, twice and thrice sworn in the eyes of the Powers and my Ally, on my magic, so mote it be._



**Re-write those parts, and we can do it tonight. Your room. I’ll zap you.**

Hermione grinned. Tom had found all of the points she expected him to find, and was even being more reasonable than expected about the consultation clause. He probably couldn’t think of any way it could be used against him. She would add that to the original version, and pass him a copy at dinner.


	38. Part 2: An offer you can't refuse

4 September 1940

Runes, Hermione thought, was going to be an interesting class.

Professor Ambrosia Shylock was perhaps thirty, and, contrary to the impression she had given off in the elective planning meeting, vivacious in her element. Her Mastery was in enchanting, and, unlike Professor Babbling in the 1990s, she was terribly excited about the practical applications of runes. The look on her face when she talked about the subject was similar, Hermione thought, to the one on Tom’s face when discussing the Chamber of Secrets.

Her third-years learned Elder Futhark, and covered the theoretical basics of Ogham and the various Egyptian scripts and their uses. On the practical side, they had learned to apply and empower simple wards and hex signs, like the ones Hermione had put around her doors. Having managed that suggested that Hermione was not _too_ far behind.

Fourth-years were expected to learn Ogham and the most common Egyptian hieroglyphs, and would learn the theory behind the use of Cuneiform, Mayan glyphs, and ancient Chinese characters. They would _not_ be expected to learn the full range of any of the logographic languages, because, as Shylock had posted on the slate in six-inch letters: That’s what reference books are for. The fourth-years would learn the basics of permanent enchantment. They were intended to practice enchanting or further the development of their wardcrafting in their practical sessions.

Hermione elected to work on enchanting, as she had the basics of warding, and could work on that outside of class without having to constantly ask the professor (or Tom) for help. She decided that her first project should be replicating Tom’s enchantment of her notebook on her dayplanner, so that she could plan her days freely. Tom, she suggested, should work on creating a dicta-quill, which did not exist in 1940, so they wouldn’t have to actually take notes by hand in class. His eyes lit up at the challenge, and he started taking notes feverishly on what such an artifact would actually have to _do._ He had six pages by the end of class.

After the fourth-years were dismissed, Hermione asked for basic references to practical enchantment, and was given a thirty-inch scroll of books to look up and a slightly manic grin. _I like her_ , thought the girl as she hurried to Arithmancy.

…

In Arithmancy, Professor Russell allowed her fourth-years to actually _use_ Tierankoff’s Analytikar and create their own mirror-traps. Hermione had seen the process demonstrated once the previous year (in a lecture on the early days of systematic arithmantic analyses _Merlin this is weird_ , she thought.) and thought she could probably interpret the readout, but she had never created the apparatus herself. Fortunately, none of the others had either.

Following the instructions in their text, they conjured mirrors to exact specifications (all with different dimensions, and different degrees of concavity or convexity), spelling each piece with the prescribed phrases of Tierankoff’s Analytikar, and slotting them together in a wooden frame to make a sort of thirteen-sided box with a hole at one corner, through which the spell they were intended to analyze would be cast.

The professor explained that it was possible to permanently enchant a mirror-trap, but that for their purposes, the spell-construct versions would suffice. If they had constructed and spelled their traps correctly, the specifics of different aspects of the spell would be displayed as it bounced around the mirrored interior of the box. These could then be copied to a scroll for interpretation.

As the students quickly discovered, Tierankoff’s Analytikar was not an easy spell to cast, nor was it easy to make it stick to the conjured mirrors, and constructing shapes with odd numbers of non-planar sides was also rather difficult.

About halfway through the period, Tom gave up on his construction project, and, having some idea of what the final shape was supposed to be, conjured it in a single piece. Spelling the trap with the entirety of the Analytikar, he shot a light charm into it, and his construct promptly exploded in a shower of silver sparks.

Professor Russell used him as an example of why one couldn’t always take the most apparent route. Tom was not pleased.

By the end of the period, not a single person had managed to successfully construct a working mirror-trap. Some were doing better than others, however. Tammie, Edmond, and Lina were having issues keeping their conjured mirrors intact long enough to spell them all and attempt to slot them together. Les and Fil were apparently not quite good enough at visualization to make their mirrors the correct size, and had at least twice each nearly completed their traps, only to find that the last few pieces did not fit together. The remainder of the class had eventually managed to get their mirrors together, only to receive output error messages, or no feedback at all on sending in a spell.

The professor suggested that these issues were most often due to deterioration of the construct after the Analytikar phrases were cast, or by incorrect degrees of concavity or convexity failing to bounce the spell to all sides of the trap. She did not seem displeased, however. She told them as they were packing up that last year it had taken three weeks before anyone had managed the spell properly, and advised them to practice maintaining conjurations for a longer period of time.

The discouraged Slytherins walked in silence most of the way back to their dorm.

“Think we could’ve done it if we hadn’t basically drained ourselves yesterday?” Tom eventually asked Hermione.

“Probably,” she grinned, surprisingly cheered by the realization that she probably wasn’t _really_ that bad at conjuring bloody mirrors. It had just been a really long week. _And it’s only Wednesday_ , she thought despairingly. It _was_ rather unfortunate that they couldn’t have tried it for the first time when they were well-rested.

“Of course you could have,” Leo declared obnoxiously, “’Young Mr. Riddle’ can do anything.”

“Except Cheering Charms,” said Scorpius.

“And catching Sedgwick off guard.” Leo, again.

“And _not_ pissing off Dumbledore,” added Edmond.

“No, I think that one was mostly Hermione so far this year,” Scorpius rejoined.

“He lost twenty points just for being there and ‘knowing better,’” Edmond pointed out.

“Bloody hell. I still have detention tonight,” moaned Hermione.

“Serves you right for suggesting we blow up half the castle,” smirked Tom as they reached the Common Room.

Hermione threw a rude gesture at Tom as she stalked away to her bedroom. She stowed her bag and quickly copied out a revised version of the Alliance vows for Tom before rejoining the boys to head to dinner.

At dinner, the only interesting occurrence was Bella bouncing over to the fourth-year section of the table to tell Tom and Hermione how excited she was for Friday, and that the first-years would be done with classes at four. Hermione told the younger girl to come talk to her Thursday after dinner, or Friday wasn’t happening.

The boys were briefly interested in what was happening on Friday, but Hermione told them it was just extra Transfiguration, like they had been doing on the train, and they quickly turned to talk about Quidditch tryouts, which would be held on Saturday, because, in Scorpius’ words, “what kind of lunatic does _extra_ Transfiguration?”

Tom followed Hermione back to her hallway after dinner, reasoning that if they already knew what they were going to say, there was no reason to wait and say the vows after her detention. Hermione grumbled a bit about the lack of ceremony, but they spoke the words she had written, swearing their magic into an alliance with each other and vowing to keep their ally’s secrets to death and beyond.

“Now let me into your gods damned room so I can fix your wards,” demanded Tom. “They’re atrocious.”

“Fine,” Hermione rolled her eyes and dropped the wards, “But only because I know you could break these in about a minute anyway.”

“Yeah, I really could. Plus, you know, the first clause of the vow kind of demands I not let you get yourself killed by disgruntled Slytherins. And the intent ward on the hall is a nice touch, but we do need for Bellatrix and me to be able to enter your room on Friday. I’m changing this one to a blood ward, with an invitation clause and a magical signature primacy, like the one on my bedroom. Turner lets you go at nine, right?” Hermione nodded. “I’ll probably still be working on it, then. When you get back, we can set the primacy, and then you’ll be able to disinvite me if you really want to. Everyone else will be kept out automatically by the blood ward. Without it, you’d have to disinvite each person specifically. With it, you’ll have to specifically invite people in. I’ll carve the runes in, both for your room and the ones you’ve got on the hall door, since we keep the same rooms until we graduate.”

“Why are you so excited about this?” Actually carving the runes would add at least an hour to the warding process.

“Well the Common Room is nice, but the privacy is somewhat lacking, and there’s a lot to be said for having your own hallway. I think I should be able to access the foundation-enchantments anywhere in the dorms, so I can work on the lab just as well from here, with fewer interruptions. Besides, I like runework.”

Privately, Hermione was beginning to think that Tom really just liked ridiculously complex and strenuous magic. Divination, no matter what he said, was actually quite difficult, as was, she had learned in class, even the most basic enchanting. He had even seemed somewhat more relaxed today (after his headache had faded) which she thought might be due to nearly draining his resources in their duel. She wondered if perhaps Tom never really got to push the limits of his magic in class, and if that was part of why he was generally so destructive. All she said, though, was, “Well, have fun then. I’ll be back at quarter after nine.”

Tom nodded absently, erasing the chalk and charcoal runes on her bedroom door with a sweep of his wand, already thinking of how to integrate a one-way sound ward.


	39. Part 2: Madam Turner is Really Bad at Detentions

4 September 1940

Hermione arrived in the Hospital Wing for her detention promptly at eight. Madam Turner was somewhat surprised that the girl had remembered she was supposed to come: she had been nearly asleep on her feet when she arrived the previous evening, and had passed out thoroughly before being sent home.

The Healer reminded the girl of the task she had half-completed the previous night, and returned to her office. Hermione set to finishing the inventory verification and rotating the potions stores so that the oldest would be used before the new stock. She finished in just under fifteen minutes. The healer had clearly judged the amount of time the task would take when Hermione was completely exhausted.

The girl followed the Healer to her office to ask if there was anything else for her to do, and when the Healer said no, asked if she might then spend the remainder of the hour reading one of the reference texts on basic healing.

Madam Turner, who had once been a Teaching Healer at St. Mungo’s (and rather missed the good old days sometimes), considered that there were many potentially dangerous healing spells that could be found in books, with none of the appropriate warnings. She also considered that this was the girl who was in detention for dangerous unsupervised transfiguration experiments, who had apparently somehow managed to befriend Tom Riddle of all people, and who had done _something_ with a Cheering Charm which had apparently warranted being dueled into magical exhaustion. After a moment, Kitty said that she would do the young witch one better and give her a lesson. But first…

“Remind me why you’re in detention again?”

“Because Tom and I wanted to try a two-to-one mass-changing transfiguration with a vanishment and a Humbold’s and Professor Dumbledore thought we were going to blow up the transfiguration wing.”

“It is rather a valid concern, though I’m sure he didn’t explain it to you, the ponce.” Hermione smiled slightly at this. “Improperly applied energy captures can increase the power you’re trying to capture by orders of magnitude, and if it were to fail suddenly… you’d be lucky to fill a matchbox when they were done trying to scrape you off the rubble. We’re talking magical backlash that could easily destroy every nerve in your body, and physical energy release that could level half the school, if you were to set it off in the wrong place. The Slytherin dorms, in case you were wondering, would be just such a wrong place, so you’d best not be thinking you’re going to try that spell on your own time. I will put you under the same restrictions as I have Mr. Riddle, if I think you’re likely to destroy the Great Hall and the Hufflepuff dorms, as well as half of your own.”

The girl frowned for a long moment, considering her options. “What if we use light-dispersion containment wards so that there would be no physical explosion?”

“And to counteract the radiation?”

“You can tune the one I’m thinking of to only visible-spectrum light. No radiation.”

Kitty frowned at the girl. “Well, I suppose the worst you could do, then, would be blinding yourselves, and I really can’t stop you. Though if you do show up here with your retinas burnt out, I won’t be re-growing them for you.”

“Yes ma’am.” The girl looked slightly cowed.

“Fine. Anyway, healing spells. To _properly understand_ healing, one must thoroughly understand the body. You are muggleborn, I think?” she began.

Hermione nodded, then remembered, “Well, halfblood.”

Madam Turner raised an eyebrow at this. This girl was supposed to be a Slytherin? Clearly not for her skills at keeping secrets. “But you would have taken biology, at least some biology, before you came to Hogwarts? I can only assume, since you know about the light spectrum and radiation that you’ve some idea of the natural sciences.”

“I know about germs and cells and a little about how the circulatory and pulmonary systems work, but that’s it.” Hermione knew just enough about muggle sciences to have some idea of how much she didn’t know, and feel bad about it.

“Ah, more than most witches, at any rate. Well, do ask questions, if you have them.”

Hermione nodded again.

 “The first thing you need to know about healing spells,” she said, recalling the days when she used to lecture to new Healers-in-Training, “is that Healing Spells as a class are much more similar to curses than to any other class of magic.

“A healing spell may look like transfiguration. It’s not. It’s _permanent_. If you heal a gash in someone’s leg, it won’t start bleeding again an hour later. A healing spell may look like a charm. It’s not. It’s _irreversible_. If you use a charm or jinx to deaden the nerves in someone’s tongue, as with the Tongue-Tying Jinx, the effect is temporary, and can be cancelled with a strong Finite or the counterjinx. If you create the same effect with a healing spell, you have _cut_ the nerve, as effectively as if you had used a scalpel. A healing spell may look like a countercurse. It’s not. A counter is specific to a certain curse. A healing spell forces the body to reverse the effects of the curse, both of which are permanent actions.

“This is important, because Healing Spells, like all magic, are tools, and can be used for good or ill. There is a reason Healers take an Oath. Healing Spells are among the most dangerous of all magic, because of their permanency and irreversibility, and because of the way they interact specifically with the body and, sometimes, the mind.

“Healing Spells induce the cells and tissues of the body to undergo specific actions: To grow, to die, to come together or part. If you use a healing spell to cause a bruise to fade, you are stimulating the body’s own methods of bruise reduction, forcing the subcutaneous scab to be eaten by macrophages and the tissues to grow back to a mature and uninjured state.

“You do not need to know any of the specifics to make the spells work, and I suspect that you really only want to know basic first aid, and so on, yes?”

“Well, we do only have half an hour,” said Hermione.

“Quite. Well, you don’t need to know advanced biology to make a healing spell work any more than you need to know the anatomy of a hedgehog to turn it into a pincushion through transfiguration, at least using the incantation. If you were using the Basics… but I digress.

“The magic will take care of the details, shaped by your intent. There are really only five healing spells that are taught as emergency first-aid or battlefield healing.”

Hermione raised a hand.

“Yes, child?”

“May I have parchment and quill to take notes?”

The Healer handed the girl the requested supplies from her desk and continued.

“Of the five spells, one is simply essential, and the other four were selected for their versatility. There are dozens of more specific, narrowly focused spells which can achieve the same results more effectively or more elegantly, but in a life-or-death situation, it is better to know four spells perfectly that will solve your immediate problem than to know twenty spells that don’t do quite what you need. So.

“The first of the five, the essential spell with a single, narrow purpose, is _expurgate_ , the Cleansing Spell. It is used as a general disinfectant for all wounds before you close them, lest you seal bacteria or particulates directly into the tissue. Always, always, always _expurgate_. If you have any question whatsoever as to whether you should use it, the answer is yes. Cleansing _can_ be dangerous, if it is used internally, on the intestines, for example, but that is reversible given enough patience, and the cases in which it is necessary so heavily outweigh the cases where you could do damage that the answer is still always to _expurgate_.

“Second is _confervetur_ , the Wound-Sealing Spell. It means _let it be grown together_. It can be used for all abrasions to the skin, cuts, puncture wounds, burns, even broken bones, if you know the anatomy well enough. It is _highly_ versatile, and its effects depend almost entirely on the will of the caster. It will serve well for surface wounds, but it is inadvisable for novices to use it on anything more than skin deep, as undirected it may result in different tissues growing together, and it is, like all healing spells, irreversible. I have also seen the Wound Sealing Spell used to close orifices that are not meant to be closed – the mouth, eyelids, sphincter, every pore on a girl’s face – it can be terrifying if used improperly, and can only be reversed through physical means.

“The third is _theto_ , the Greek Setting Spell. It is used on broken bones, twisted ankles, sprains, strains and so on, and is more versatile than the Splinting Spell as it can be used to immobilize a broken rib, neck, or spine as thoroughly as a limb. The core idea of the Setting Spell is immobilization, at every level. It does not facilitate healing in and of itself, so it is technically a Charm. If you know what you’re doing the Setting Spell may be used to arrange the pieces of a bone for healing, but that is a matter of knowledge and intent, and should be avoided by novices.

“The fourth first-aid spell is _iremo,_ another Greek spell. This one’s the Calming Spell. It induces the chemical reactions in the brain and body to facilitate any number of effects. You can reduce sensations of pain, slow breathing, calm fevers, lower the heart rate and blood pressure and so on, again, all a matter of intent. The effects wear off as the body processes the chemical reactions produced. There is some debate over whether this should be taught at all as first aid, because, though it has certain effects that are very useful in many situations, it can also be dangerous if it is used in certain situations where the body is already dealing with pain or trauma with essentially the opposite chemical reaction.”

Hermione raised her hand again. “Is that like the Emotive Charms?”

“In what way?”

“You don’t need to be able to think of a calm thought or anything like that, do you, in order to cast it properly?”

“No, dear me, that would never work in most battlefield situations. No, you only need to know the physical effects you want to achieve.

“Finally, there is _dorme_ , the Sleeping Spell. You may learn a slightly different version as the Napping Spell. This spell is used when trauma is too extreme for first-aid to deal with, and you must find or wait for help. Its effects can range from sleep, to a sort of coma or hibernation, to nearly complete stasis when the patient is on the verge of death. The Sleeping Spell is also the Mercy Spell. If the patient is at that point and _wants_ to die, the spell will take them across the veil without pain. If the patient wants to live, they will reach stasis, and may be revived after their wounds have been healed. If you should, Powers forbid, ever find yourself in a situation where you cast the Sleeping Spell and your patient does not wake up, know that you did everything you could for him.”

Hermione thought that the Healer looked rather sad, and wondered what her life had been like before Hogwarts. Surely one didn’t need to know anything about battlefields if one spent one’s life working at a secondary school.

“What time is it, now?”

Hermione cast a _tempus_. It was ten minutes to nine.

“Right then, child. We’ve just time for me to show you the wand movements for each of the five, I should think. You can look them up again later, if you need to.”

She demonstrated each of the spells, and Hermione copied her movements and intonation, successfully managing to cast each, though without a target it was difficult to tell if they had been done properly.

A few minutes past nine, Madam Turner dismissed the girl with a final warning. “Healing is a dangerous art. If you use any of these spells deliberately inappropriately inside this castle, I will find out about it, and I _will_ return your actions three-fold. Do feel free to pass that warning on to your troublemaking friend Mr. Riddle, if you share the spells.” There was a glint in the Healer’s eye that suggested that if Tom and Hermione were to misuse the Healing Arts, the Healer would take them apart and put them back together inside out.

“Yes, ma’am,” said Hermione rather guiltily, considering that she _had_ just been thinking that she should see if the Calming Spell worked on Tom, and if he could cast it, or if they could modify it to simulate other emotions. She hurried back to the Slytherin dorm unsettled by the alternative uses of the healing spells Madam Turner had mentioned, and the fact that her immediate thought had been to wonder if healing texts were available in the library.

She rather thought she _wouldn’t_ teach Tom _confervetur._ She could just imagine waking up one morning with webbed fingers or something equally awful, but not technically _harmful_.


	40. Part 2: Wardcrafting

4 September 1940

Hermione felt the tingle of strong wards sweep over her as she entered the short hallway leading to her bedroom, _recognizing_ her as belonging in the space.

She paused to look at the symbols carved deep into the stone of the lintel and doorposts. Though out of sight if one was approaching from the Common Room, they were clearly visible from the inside, blackened as well as carved, to stand out from the light stone. They were small and closely spaced, in at least four languages – she recognized Egyptian, Younger Futhark, and Ogham, and there were a few symbols that she thought might have been cursive Phoenician or Linear B, though they could have been proto-Arabic.

The Egyptian, she knew, was the keep-out ward, and the Futhark would be for the intent condition. The Ogham was, potentially, to amplify the hidden intentions of anyone who entered. The unknown fourth language was restricted largely to the lintel. She didn’t know what that component might be.

The individual symbols were arranged almost artistically, those on the posts paired across the doorframe, and alternating in their orientations and inversions to maintain balance and stability. Looking more closely, she saw that instead of a simple line-and-medallion connecting diagram, there were threads of hieratic, like ivy grown around the other runes, connecting and defining their relationships. The lintel ward-structure was connected to the posts only by the center rune, and the organization of it was an elongated starburst, rather than the more traditional linear or circular patterns. The overall effect was of a garden trellis, covered in vines.

She ran a hand over one of the posts, and turned to see what Tom had managed in her room. She couldn’t wait to see what he had planned for the inner sanctum, if this was his take on a simple intent-based entry ward. It made her previous attempt look like a child’s sloppy scribbling. She could easily see how he managed to become one of the most powerful wizards in the world by age thirty.

She opened the door slowly, just in case Tom was working on the other side, to find him kneeling in the center of the floor with two notebooks, a mirror, a bowl of paint with several brushes in it and a sheaf of parchment strewn around him, checking, she turned to see, the symbols painted on the back of the door as well as its posts and the lintel against those on the pages in his hands.

“Like the hall ward?” he asked as she entered.

“It’s gorgeous. What does the bit on the lintel do?”

“It’s a Phoenician trap ward that I integrated with your lightning hex idea so if someone tries to get in with ill intent, they’ll get zapped, and if they get in and _then_ decide to do something that the ‘owner’ of the space, which would be you, would consider harmful to yourself or your property, they can’t get _out_.”

“That’s brilliant. Probably overkill, but brilliant.”

“It’s not overkill, it’s fun.”

“You have a strange idea of fun.”

“So I’ve been told. The hall door posts have the intent-recognition, an amplifier to get at covert intentions, and a recognition-alert, which is linked to the ‘owner’ of the space. It lets you know when someone crosses the wardline or if someone tries to cross and gets repelled. I set it up on myself to test it, but we’ll switch it to you when we do the primacy recognition here. Setting that up will also calibrate the definition of “harm” to whatever _you_ think is harmful, rather than whatever _I_ think is harmful.”

“That sounds like it might be dangerous to you in the long run,” Hermione joked.

Tom apparently took it at face value though: “I exempted myself from the lightning ward. That’s non-negotiable. You’ll just have to settle for me being locked out.”

“I think I can deal with that.” Honestly she was surprised he hadn’t just exempted himself from the wards entirely. “What’s all this?”

“ _This_ is more or less the same as I have on my bedroom, a blood ward with an invitation clause and a magical signature primacy. The same magical signature primacy is linked to the hall ward. The circle in the center is the blood ward-invitation bit. The blood ward is Phoenician, and the invitation clause is in Arabic.” The Phoenician and Arabic had been painted so that they formed two complete circles, the space of their script overlapping, but no letters actually touching. “The magical signature goes at the center of the circle, over the little hieratic ring that links it to the hall ward. You’ll have to paint your own symbol there, and imbue it with your magic.”

“What do you mean _my_ symbol? And how do I imbue it with my magic? And where’s the blood in this blood ward?”

“I’ll get to that in a minute. And the blood is in the paint. It makes the empowering and carving _much_ easier. You’ll see. Anyway, the four corners of the lintel and posts are also part of the blood ward, the actual locking bit. Everything on the door itself is just the recognition. And then the hieratic is a one-way soundproofing ward. I had meant to find a way to integrate it with the rest of it, but they have different fundamental purposes, and I don’t plan on spending all night on this, so I’ve left it separate. It’s just ink. I’ll leave it that way for now and figure it out next week. What do you think?”

“They weren’t kidding when they said you were the best at wards. These are beautiful, Tom.”

Tom smirked, “No, they weren’t, and thank you.”

“So it’s done, then?”

“Except for adding your symbol and signature, and the carving and empowering.”

“How do we finish it?”

“Well, first we need to figure out your symbol. That’s what the mirror is for. Did you read Amocelsis’ chapter on _introspection_?”

“In _Magical Mind_? I skimmed it.”

“Well, to find your symbol, you need to reach a meditative state and turn inward. When you think you’ve found your center, breathe onto the mirror so that it catches some condensation. It should clear into your symbol. Then you’ll paint that symbol onto the door and pool your magic into it, like you do when you’re scrying or carving a rune.” Hermione started to object, but Tom cut her off. “It should be even easier than scrying, since our shared blood is in the paint. You just have to maintain that connection while I empower the wards, and it should be set.”

“Wait, shouldn’t we carve the wards first?”

“No. I love this trick. Since it’s a blood ward, I can use the connection between my blood and my magic to _burn_ the runes into the stone. It’s awesome. Watch.” He painted a tiny _thorn_ sign on the back of his hand and glared at it. “ _Adustulare._ ” The black sign glowed red and began to char into his skin.

“Jesus Christ, Tom!” Hermione leaned forward and grabbed Tom’s hand.

He grinned at her and the rune stopped glowing, leaving a raw mark that would almost certainly scar. “What?”

“Doesn’t that _hurt_? Why wouldn’t you demonstrate on a notebook or something, you psycho?”

He grinned. “Of course it hurts. But it’s not permanent. And I can’t fix a notebook like I can fix my hand. Plus the look on your face was priceless.” He snapped his fingers and the skin knit together. In a moment, the mark had completely vanished.

“How did you do that?”

“My skin, my blood, my magic, my choice to accept the burn or reject it.” He shrugged. “It’s a special case and really _old_ magic. The Celts used to use it for Ogham going into battle. I have a book on it somewhere. Anyway, I’ll empower the wards and carve them at the same time.”

“You’re a little scary, sometimes, Tom.”

“I know. Most of the time it’s even on purpose. Anyway, figure out what your symbol is so I can finish this. It’s got to be close to ten by now.”

Hermione closed her eyes and focused on her breathing, “turning inward” as the book on mind magic had put it. She thought it was not altogether different from when she had helped put Tom’s memories in order, except rather than turning to look into his mind, she had to look into her own, and feel her way toward her core or center or the heart of her magic, the place that she felt her _selfness_ most strongly.

Some timeless period later, she carefully opened her eyes and found the mirror, holding on to that sense of _self_. She exhaled, catching the breath on the mirror. It fogged, then cleared to show a symbol that looked like a C, laid on its back, with a long, vertical bar bisecting it. She sketched it in one of Tom’s notebooks, and asked him if he knew what it was.

“I think it’s a Gothic _thiuth_ ,” he said. “I’m not exactly sure what it means. _Light_ or _good_ , maybe? Doesn’t matter. Paint it in the center of the circle. Make sure it covers the hieratic.”

“Why? Wouldn’t the link work regardless?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Tom sounded almost exasperated, “but it would look stupid. Make it nice and large. It’s the centerpiece, and it’s marking the space as _yours_.”

Hermione stuck her tongue out at Tom, and did as instructed, with two quick sweeps of the largest brush. It was not as elegant or perfectly symmetrical as Tom’s runes, but she rather thought it suited the design.

“Okay, now you’re going to get back to that same meditative state and when you find your _self,_ you’re going to reach out with your magic and identify all the other parts of yourself in the room. You might find me, because we share the blood bond and the Alliance Vows, but your magic will move on, because I belong to _myself_. The second-strongest attractor should be your _thiuth_ , because it symbolizes _you_. Once you’ve found it, you’re going to pour your magic into it. Just kind of focus on it really hard. When you think you have the link, open your eyes and I’ll let you know.

“I’ll nod if it’s right, and then you have to hold on to that connection as hard as you can, while I activate the wards around you. If it’s not right, you’ll have to go back to meditating and try to find the _thiuth_ again.”

“Right.” She closed her eyes again, finding her center more quickly, she thought, for having just touched it, and then turned outward, trying to draw that sense of self with her. It felt _odd_ and somehow wrong, to try to move it.

She lost her sense of it a couple of times before she heard Tom whisper, “Relax, and stop playing with your core. Let your magic flow through the room and find the other parts of you.”

She turned outward, keeping her eyes closed, and let the part of her that she had been using to draw on what was apparently her core spread out from her in waves. It was strange, this new sense. She wasn’t sure she could describe it if she had wanted to. _Like explaining sight to a people without eyes_ , she thought irrelevantly, as she felt/reached/recognized Tom and snapped back to her own body in surprise.

She opened her eyes. “This isn’t working.”

“That was it. You’re just not used to reaching very far away from yourself with your magic. Here, do you think you can stand and maintain that meditative state?”

“Maybe?”

“Try touching the rune. You’ll have to pull back after you establish contact, though. I can’t heal _you_ if you’re burned when I carve the runes.”

She stood and moved to the door, her fingertips lightly brushing the _thiuth_ rune. That was _much_ easier. She expanded her magic to the rune and slowly pulled her fingers away from the door, what felt like a thin thread connecting the rune to herself. She opened her eyes slowly and Tom nodded, motioning for her to come further from the door. She did, lowering herself to the floor a few feet away.

Through the indescribable sense of her magic, she felt a _rush_ as Tom’s power filled the room. She clung to her connection to the _thiuth_ rune, willing it not to break. It didn’t.

“ _Adustulare._ ”

 _Every_ rune burst into red-black flames as Tom’s magic funneled itself into them, eating their way evenly into wood and stone. She felt her connection to the _thiuth_ rune expand to encompass the entire space of the wards, and then it faded slowly out of her consciousness as the flames faded from the runes. She blinked, and looked around to see Tom, also sitting on the floor. If she hadn’t known better, she would have said he looked high, his eyes half lidded, wearing a lop-sided smile and leaning on one hand. His other hand was reaching toward the wards, and she watched as he twisted his wrist and _pulled_ his power back to himself.

He lay back, fully supine on the cold stone of the floor, and she moved to lie next to him, as they had done so often on his bed over the summer.

“Tom?”

“Yes, Hermione?”

“You’re a little scary sometimes.”

He turned his head to meet her eyes. “It worked.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “That doesn’t make it _less_ scary.”

Tom rolled his eyes back, and they laughed together, for a moment, Tom high on magic, and Hermione overwhelmed by the absurdity of possibly the most dangerous person she knew volunteering to build wards for her, and actually doing a seriously impressive, professional job because he ‘likes runework’.

_More like he likes playing with insane levels of magic. That adustulare spell has to be one of the most power-intense things I’ve ever seen, and he did it wandlessly, on the entire ward at once. And he had to use the same thing on the hall ward. There’s no way he got those fine lines for the hieratic any other way. Which means…_


	41. Part 2: In which Tom accuses Hermione of being the insanity in his life, but otherwise sounds surprisingly sane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: discussions of child abuse (third person); discussions of twisted power dynamics within relationships; Tom explaining his sadistic mindset... I think this is one of the more fucked up chapters, really.

4 September 1940

 “Hey, Tom?”

“Yes, Hermione?”

“Why were you so wiped out after our duel? If you could do _that_ twice, in one night, after a full day of classes, you should have been _fine_ when Sedgwick _enervated_ you.”

“Erm. Sedgwick may have challenged me to revive you after you were completely drained and I may have used a life-force transfer ritual that had a lot more residual drain than I expected. Hypothetically, of course.” Tom actually sounded somewhat _embarrassed_. Probably because he had no reason to know about a self-sacrifice spell like that.

“ _Hypothetically,_ why would you have done something stupid like that?”

“Because the alternative was taking you to the Hospital Wing, and Turner hates me. Not quite as much as Dumbledore, but close. And because I wanted to see if it worked. But mostly the first one. She threatened to cut my feet off and reattach them backwards if I was responsible for anyone coming to see her in the first week of school ever again, and I quote ‘for any reason whatsoever.’”

Hermione started laughing again.

“You’ve met the lady. You’d believe her too.”

“No, it’s not that. It’s funny because, well, she taught me some healing spells tonight and said that she would pay me, well, us, back threefold if we misused any of them, and I could just _see_ her taking us apart and putting us back together inside out. I _completely_ believe you. And her. Do I even want to _know_ what you did?”

“Probably not. I poisoned all the Gryffindors the day after they came back from winter Holiday. Christmas present to myself.”

“That’s _horrible_.”

“That’s what Turner said. She couldn’t _prove_ it was me, of course, but she knew. Hence the threat. So, that’s why I thought I’d give the _vis datio_ a try.”

“Oh, good. And here I was thinking you liked me or something.”

“I do like you, but not _life force transfer to fix a normal bout of magical exhaustion_ like. That’s just stupid.”

“Well, thank you, anyway.”

They shared a smirk.

“Hey, Tom?”

“Yes, Hermione?”

“Can I ask you to tell me the truth about something, and really think about it before you answer?”

“Well, since you _asked_ , only if I can ask you something.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

“Why do you like to hurt people? What are you going to get out of Friday?”

Tom looked away, up at the ceiling. “I… That’s a hard question… I don’t even know if I can explain it. Give me a second.” He did fully intend to tell the truth. He had a suspicion Hermione was not about to let this topic go. And besides, he was still trying to prove to himself that she didn’t know him as well as she thought she did. But it was a tricky question. He didn’t normally go in for introspection. He recognized certain truths, like the fact that he was unusual compared to his peers, and then let them go, not interested in how they fit together or the shape of the whole that they formed.

Hermione watched Tom think, thinking that his face looked like a mask when he wasn’t thinking about what it should look like. She kind of liked that: that the times when he looked most guarded were the times he was most genuine. It was ironic and contrary. It suited him.

Eventually he spoke. His voice held no emotion, but was soft and flat, as though he were simply objectively reporting the findings of a mildly interesting study in which he had no real vested interest. Academic, but not fervent, as he could so often be about actual academic topics. “Blood, of course, is power, and the essence of a person. To take it is to take a part of them, to have something that represents them in every significant way, magically speaking. And there’s something about breaching the integrity of perfect skin, and watching the blood well out that’s just… mesmerizing. But that’s not quite what you asked.

“There’s something fascinating, too, about watching a person’s reactions to pain and fear, forcing them to react, predicting their faces and movements and all the little involuntary sounds they’ll make. It’s the only time I really feel like I _get_ people. Like there’s a kind of connection between us, foraged by the pain. My actions cause a direct reaction. The association is clear, crisp. You would say, I think, that that’s the only time I really think of them as _people_.

“And in that moment, I feel _satisfied_. Calm. Content. Centered. I know where I _fit_ in the world, and everything is right.

“But I think if I had to try to boil it down to the essence of the thing, it’s mostly about power. Control. I _understand_ pain. I _understand_ that when someone can’t _stop_ me from hurting them, I own them. Every part of their physical being is at my mercy, and therefore _mine_. …And after they submit, surrender, stop fighting me and stop fighting the pain, then a part of them is mine forever.

“Like you.”

Hermione inhaled perhaps slightly more forcefully than she had intended. Tom didn’t seem to notice or care, but continued speaking in the same measured tone, as though he were reading passages out of their History text.

“You… You are infuriating, you know. Impossible and independent and utterly maddening. And you chose to declare yourself my blood sister. That... I don’t think we could dissolve that bond if we wanted to. And it was a _choice_. Not forced through pain or torture. And it goes both ways. I am _yours_ as much as you are _mine_. And I can’t control you. I never could. Not even when you were recovering from getting dropped in the middle of a war zone, completely off balance, no idea where or _when_ you were… you still said _no_.

“I could hurt you, now, even, but I don’t think you would ever surrender. God, the look of you, standing in front of me, naked and furious, blood dripping down your back from my work. It was glorious, in its way. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you, who would stand there and openly _defy_ me from an objective position of weakness, having been entirely at my mercy, and yet would offer _willingly_ to claim and be claimed. You say you’re afraid of me, but you never show it. Did you know that? You confuse me. And fascinate me. I don’t think I’ll ever understand you, and I don’t think you can ever possibly understand me, and yet you chose to _accept_ me, and even if you told me why, the answer would be so far outside anything I know that I wouldn’t _get_ it.

“And Bellatrix… She’s like me. Or… more like me. She is as fascinated by me and… whatever I represent to her… as I am by you and the utter _insanity_ you represent in my life. But she’s also like you. She wants to give a part of herself to me. I have … some idea why, more than with you, at least. Not all of it, probably, and it, Friday, will mean something different to her than it does to me. But it’s not really important. I mean, the effect is the same. She would give me her pain, her reactions, that moment of _understanding_ that I crave. For me… I think Friday is a way to bridge the gap. To… maybe to reconcile, the way I relate to you, by choice, and the only other way I’ve ever related to anyone else, through pain, because _she_ offers both. She stands at a crossroad…” Tom trailed off.

“Why do you care what I want with her? Why should it matter to you?”

Hermione was caught on a number of points that Tom had raised and dismissed in quick succession, not least of which was the fact that in Tom’s world _she_ was the source of ‘insanity’ ( _ha!_ ). This was second only to the thought that _really_ , she herself wasn’t that special, except insofar as she managed to get Tom to see her as a person: He just clearly didn’t _know_ anyone else well enough to see that there were other independent people in the world, or that _normal_ relationships involved a great deal of trust and mutual vulnerability. She realized after a moment that it was her turn to speak, and had to clear her throat. “You want to _hurt_ her. You saw her back. She doesn’t deserve more pain.”

“You objected before you saw her back.”

“She’s an innocent. She didn’t deserve to be hurt, ever, by you or by her father.”

“Uncle. Her uncle’s the head of House Black. But she _asked_ for it. From me, and from him. She broke the rules, whatever they were. She’s in training. They wouldn’t have punished her inconsistently. She could have avoided it. And she didn’t. That’s why she’s interesting. That, and her interest in me. So she did deserve it. But even if she had never been hurt by her family, if she had asked me anyway, why would you care? She’s not _yours_.”

And suddenly Hermione understood. The question wasn’t _why shouldn’t I hurt this girl_, it was _why do you care what I do with this girl_. _You have no dominion over this child. She does not belong to you. Why should you be concerned about her fate, of all the children in the world?_

“It doesn’t matter that she’s not _mine_ the way you’re mine, or I am my own. I have… a vested interest in the state of society, I suppose, if you want to get philosophical about it. Allowing _anyone_ to hurt a child, that goes against my principles.”

“Even if she’s asking for it? Literally _asking_ , not just breaking the rules and knowing the consequences, but unequivocally stating that this is a thing that she wants?”

There was a long pause while Hermione thought about this.

“I suppose I think that anyone who asks for pain is… broken, in a way. It’s not normal, you know, to want pain. Pain is the ultimate _opposite_ of good, and happiness. And I think maybe I think that anyone who asks for pain is really asking for _help_. For someone to see how she’s already been hurt, and stop it. That’s what they say about girls who cut themselves, anyway, that it’s a cry for attention. That it’s expressing a need that they’re too afraid to articulate aloud. So I care because I want to help.”

“Why? She was a stranger to you not even a week ago. Why _want_ to help her?”

“I… can’t help it. I don’t know why. She’s _not_ a stranger anymore, but even if she were, and I found out she needed help, that would be _enough_ , and I would want to help her. She’s a _person_. She deserves my help, if anyone does. Anyone who asks for help should be given it.”

“She _didn’t_ , though. Not the kind of help you mean.” He paused for a moment. “Shall I tell you how I saw it?”

“Fine.”

“Her marks… she’s been hurt before, caned, whipped. They made her bear the marks of her punishments, which means so much more in a world where injuries and scars are so easily reversed, the scars a punishment of their own. And she’s _still_ defiant. Maybe not to her uncle, or not to his face, but in her actions, in asking _me_ to touch her, when someone else has so thoroughly laid claim to her; in making her own scars on her arms, mark for mark; in asking me to take away her scars. Those are acts of rebellion.

“You think she’s weak, maybe, or just a child, too young to understand. She’s not. She’s been through more than you had, at eleven. Your family loved you. Hers sees her as a pawn. An animal to be trained, or broken. She’s not, not yet. Her asking me to make her pain into something _beautiful_ is her declaration that she chooses who owns her, and who has the right to touch her, to make her bleed. And it’s not her uncle, or not _just_ her uncle. Every scar on those delicate little wrists is a declaration that _she_ still has power.

“She’s going to go home, and the first time she refuses an order, or breaks a rule, they’ll have her caned, and see that she’s defied them. Her punishment will be worse than anything she’s ever had to endure, but because she has had the opportunity to erase the marks of their former punishment, to stand up, metaphorically, and say that nothing they do will _last_ , she will be able to resist, even so.

“And _if_ she asks to be _mine_ , and not _his_ , I will punish him for hurting what is _mine_ , to the degree that she deserves. But until then, she is not _mine_ , nor yours, to worry over and try to save. The only help she’s asked for is in showing those who _would_ own her that she belongs only to herself, and to dominate her physically means _nothing_. She reminds me of you in that. She will not, maybe _cannot_ submit unwillingly. She may pretend, but she will be irreparably shattered before any man can _make_ her bow. And yet she might someday _choose_ to yield…” Tom trailed off again.

 _That was surprisingly articulate_ , thought Hermione. “I’m still going to talk to her about it. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Tom said drily. “So did that answer your question, then?”

“Yes, but I still don’t think I understand.”

“Well, that’s fair, because I don’t understand you either.” He groaned as he sat up. “I need to go to bed.”

He snapped his fingers for a _tempus_. Hermione was quietly amazed that he could still do it wandlessly and wordlessly after his earlier display. “Half twelve? Bloody hell. I’m skipping breakfast. Meet you here before Charms?”

“Sure. I’ll be up. See you in the morning.”

Tom left his wardcasting supplies on her desk and made his way to his own room. She felt him cross the hall ward, and, somehow less tired after their conversation than she had been before, went to take a shower and think about things like symbols, and power, and choice, and what people _meant_ to each other.


	42. Part 2: Thursday

5 September 1940

Thursday, in comparison to the first half of the week, was blissfully uneventful. There were no new classes, no last minute homework assignments, and no major mishaps in classes. Hermione slept in until nine, after a late night of re-evaluating her understanding of human nature, and looked up the _thiuth_ rune in the House Library. It did, in fact, mean _good_ , and held a multitude of positive and light associations in Gothic runework.

Tom came to find her at half nine and they joined the other Slytherins for Charms. Tom demonstrated his ability to successfully cast the Cheering Charm, to Scorpius’ dismay, and when asked said only (with a completely disconcerting lack of intonation) that he had been practicing thinking happy thoughts. In Transfiguration, at the insistence of the other Slytherins, Tom and Hermione did the assigned transformations _and absolutely nothing more_.

Hermione spent the rest of the hour helping the more hopeless Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors, and Tom borrowed her enchanted notebook to sketch out his design for Bella’s back. The centerpiece was a thin, double-bladed sword with slightly tapered edges and no cross-guard, its shape reminiscent of the rune _isaz,_ which ran the length of the spine. Tom called it a _xiphos_. It was thrust through a tangle of thorns which would spread across the base of the girl’s back. The blade was etched with runes for breaking and shattering, and there were coils of ivy grown around it, crowning the hilt in a spray of leaves.

When Hermione asked, Tom explained that the thicket was Bella’s life now, and the sword her will, cutting through that period of her life. Ivy was a symbol of perseverance, and its upward growth based on the foundation of her will, was a vote of confidence, saying that she would prevail, in time, over all obstacles. The sword echoed _isaz_ because, Tom said, the ice-rune suited the girl: indomitable, and likely to shatter before bending.

Dumbledore was not exactly _pleased_ that his two troublemakers were so quiet, but there was really little he could do, as Hermione was actively helping her fellow students, and Tom was not distracting anyone else. Besides, both students had easily demonstrated their mastery of the day’s assignment. He reminded himself at least twice that he could not assign detentions for a refusal to go above and beyond the requirements of the class, especially since doing so would likely, as demonstrated on Tuesday, lead to dangerous experimentation.

…

The day proceeded quietly until Defense, as Professor Sedgwick began his first lesson on curses and counter-curses by asking each student in turn the most dangerous spell they could think of. Most of the fourth-years offered jinxes or curses that they had learned at home, or in the first few years at Hogwarts.

Hermione, thinking of her previous night’s detention, said the Wound Sealing Spell. Tom looked at her speculatively.

Sedgwick laughed, “Kitty tell you about that one, then?”

“Yes, sir. I had a detention with her yesterday.”

“Work fast, don’t you? Anyway, listen up, you lot. Now that it’s been brought up, I’m obligated to tell you all that if you, and I quote, ‘pervert the sacred healing arts,’ while you reside in this castle, Madam Turner will be fully within her vows to return your actions upon you threefold. Healing spells are very dangerous, as a spell-class, and there’s a reason Hogwarts doesn’t have a class on healing until you’ve got OWLs in charms and transfiguration. You’re simply not considered responsible enough to be mucking about with them…

“Off the record, I’ll tell you that I recommend using any and all spells at your disposal in a live combat situation, and I think it’s bloody stupid not to teach first-aid, as it could save your life or someone else’s, and Madam Lyntz has been known to let students have a go at the basic Healing texts in the Restricted Section even without a note. However, Kitty’s warning still stands. Use any healing spell in an unapproved or dangerous way, and she _will_ make you regret it. Got it?”

There were nods all around the circle of students.

“Right, then. Last but not least, Tom. What’s the most dangerous spell you can think of?”

“The Imperius Curse.”

“Hmmm… why the Imperius, and not the Killing Curse, or the Cruciatus?”

“Because killing someone or causing pain does not help you in the long run, much. The Imperius, with the right orders, would let you increase your power and influence exponentially.”

“Correct, of course. And if I forbade you the Unforgivables, as you may recall from Tuesday I already have?”

Tom smiled, “The Triumph of Omphale, for the same reason.”

The Triumph of Omphale was a very dark curse, and as a lesser enslavement ritual, illegal in every country in Europe. It bound the victim to the caster’s commands for a year and a day, with layered compulsions designed to instill admiration and respect in the victim for the caster over the course of the year, such that they would serve “willingly” after the curse itself expired. It was not, however, battlefield magic, requiring quite a bit of preparation and casting time.

Sedgwick rolled his eyes. “Something you could cast on a battlefield, Tom, or in a duel. And to make it fun, see if you can think of something that’s _not_ completely illegal.”

Tom thought for a moment. “A Fundamental Arrest.”

“The _Potions_ Fundamental Arrest?” Tom nodded. “Do you have any idea what that would _do_ to a person?”

“Not specifically. Nothing good.” He shrugged. “People are full of chemical reactions. If they stop all at once, I imagine they’d die. Anyway, you asked for most dangerous, not controlled. I think that would have the most potential for dangerous consequences,” the boy added with a smirk.

“Fine,” said the professor, ticking requirements off on his fingers as he listed them, “Not illegal, not dark, battlefield appropriate, controlled, and something taught to third-year or below, that everyone in this class could reasonably be expected to perform.”

Tom thought again. Something anyone in class could perform was the tricky part. “Any number of transfigurations or vanishments, I suppose,” he finally said. “If I vanish half your heart, or replace your brain with a pincushion, you’re done for.”

“Non-fatal?” Sedgwick was beginning to have fun seeing how many restrictions he could add to this question.

“Most dangerous non-fatal battlefield-appropriate spell, that anyone in this room could cast, that’s not dark or illegal, and is completely controlled, rather than some off the wall misapplication of something simple? Why don’t you just tell me what charms I can use, and I’ll give you a battlefield application?” Tom groused.

The other students had been watching Tom with increasing degrees of apprehension over the course of this interaction, and whispering amongst themselves. Before Sedgwick could answer, Damocles Smith spoke up, thinking of course, that no one could possibly weaponize a simple light charm.

Tom grinned. “It’s already been done. _Lumos maximus_ , battlefield reduction _Lumax_ , with enough power behind it, can temporarily or permanently blind anyone looking at it.”

The other fourth-years looked uncomfortable.

“In case you were wondering, Riddle,” said Scorpius, who was located, safe from Tom’s immediate retribution, on the other side of Hermione, “This is why nobody likes you.”

Tom made a rude gesture at Scorpius, and Hermione smacked the back of his head, knocking off his hat. “Am I done, professor? If not, I think you need to define ‘most dangerous’ on a scale that doesn’t allow for death or mind control. There are all kinds of ways to permanently maim someone.”

Sedgwick responded that any spell which would remove someone from a battle was more dangerous than one which did not, but conceded that there were many non-fatal ways to do this, and allowed that Tom had, in fact, answered the question sufficiently, albeit while completely avoiding the spirit of the question.

Sedgwick went on to explain that there were different classes of charms, curses, jinxes, and hexes, based on their effects and their interactions with different types of shield spells. The broadest and least dangerous were those which could be deflected by a simple _Protego_ , the reflecting shield. Second class curses were those which could be absorbed by a _Haurio_ shield, but not reflected. Third class were those which required an _Episkiazo_ , a shadow-shield, which _diffused_ incoming spells or their effect, rendering them harmless. Fourth class were Black and White spells that could only be deflected by _de Anima_ shields. Fifth class were the Unforgivables, against which there were no effective magical shields.

The students were informed that all of the quick-cast spells they had suggested, with the exception of _lumax_ and the Unforgivables, were first or second class. Lumax was a class three, as the light needed to be diffused, rather than the spell itself absorbed. Omphale’s Curse was a ritual, not the sort of thing one would shield against, and battlefield transfigurations could also be listed as class three, but the more common response was to maintain your sense of self in opposition to any human transfigurations that were worked on you. It was difficult to transfigure something that was actively resisting.

The remainder of the period was spent practicing casting stunning spells and reflecting shields, and the class was dismissed with a reminder to attend the Dueling Club on Sunday and sign up for the War Games which would be taking place every other Saturday beginning in October.

…

Hermione enquired about these clubs at dinner, and was told that the Dueling Club was almost as popular as Quidditch, and held a tournament every year, awarding a title to the top duelist in each year, as well as to the School Champion. The Head Girl, Morgana Yaxley, was the current School Champion. Fil had narrowly beat out Neville last year for their year’s title. Tom was of the opinion that the club itself was no fun, since there were too many rules. Scorpius informed Hermione that really Tom was just nursing a grudge because he had been disqualified from the tournament their second year for hexing Willy James’ nose off.

Even Tom admitted, however, that the first Dueling Club meeting of the year was one to attend, as different professors staged demonstrations for the students. This year rumor had it Sedgwick would be taking on Flitwick no holds barred, and Madam Turner had issued a challenge to the winner. Leicaster and McKinnon had offered to put on a demonstration as well, following more traditional professional guidelines.

Sedgwick’s club, it seemed, was more Tom’s speed. The first meeting of the War Games or Battle Magic Club would be held on the first Saturday in October, and then every odd Saturday after. The third Saturday of the month was always a melee, restricted to the spells allowed by the International Dueling Confederation, and the first was always a series of organized battles between armies using IDC spells as the only form of direct attack, but any other strategies the generals could dream up over the course of the month to knock out all their opponents. In months where there were five Saturdays, the fifth Saturday was reserved for student exhibition duels, with whatever terms the combatants agreed to. If for example, Bella wanted to challenge a sixth-year to a duel using only first-year charms as taught in class, and no other rules, that was fair game. Sedgwick had drawn the line at illegal spells, and Tom supposed Turner’s ban on misusing healing spells would still apply, but aside from that, the rules were in the hands of the duelists.

While they were on the topic, the boys explained that Quidditch matches were held on the second Saturday of each month October through June, and Hogsmeade trips were allowed on the fourth Saturday. There was also a Charms Club, a Potions Club, and a Transfiguration Club, though none of the Slytherins knew when or where they were held. And of course there was the unofficial “Slug Club” which was a group of students, mostly fifth-year and up, who Slughorn thought were likely to be very successful and useful contacts outside of Hogwarts. He held fancy dinners and parties for them twice a semester, and they were told to consider him a mentor of sorts. Most of the Slytherins saw this as pandering on the part of Slughorn, and looked down on him for it, but the Slug Club Students defended their association with each other because, as Lucy Mulciber had put it, it was still an excellent intra-House networking opportunity _for them_ , even if Slughorn was primarily facilitating it for himself.


	43. Part 2: Telling Secrets

5 September 1940

When the fourth-year Slytherins returned to the dorms, Hermione excused herself from the conversation about, once again, Quidditch tryouts (apparently Slytherin needed a new chaser, and Gryffindor’s seeker had graduated).

Tom followed Hermione to her room and summoned Dot to request furniture to make one corner of the space into a small sitting-area, including two armchairs, a small table, a lamp, and a bookcase, and to send an elf to fetch two matching pocket-journals from Scriveners’. Shortly after Tom had situated the furniture and their small shared library to his satisfaction, Bella knocked on the door.

Hermione invited her in.

The younger girl shivered as she crossed the ward-line, and closed the door to inspect the runes. “I like this design,” she said, “but the other one was prettier, in the hall. Did you do it?” she asked Hermione. She had developed somewhat of an interest in wards over the summer.

“Ah, no. That would be Tom.”

“How did you get the lines so fine on the hall ward?” Bella asked, turning to the older boy. He had taken off his robes and was sitting cross-legged in muggle clothes in one of the armchairs, flipping through a reference book, muttering about text duplication.

Tom looked up, apparently not expecting to be addressed, despite the fact that Bella still sought him out at every opportunity to tell him about her day. “Blood magic.”

“Can you show me?”

Tom shrugged, hiding an anticipatory smile. He really did like this trick. He wondered if Bellatrix’s reaction would be as amusing as Hermione’s. “Come here.”

He opened a small cut on his palm and used a spare quill to take up a drop of blood, then healed the cut. He drew the _thorn_ rune on the back of his hand again.

“I can’t believe I’m watching this for the second time in twenty-four hours,” objected Hermione.

“Then don’t watch,” said Tom. She turned away “ _Adustalare_.”

The rune began to burn its way into Tom’s hand. Bella’s eyes grew round, but she did not object as Hermione had. The younger girl stared in morbid fascination, wondering how long he would let it go, and whether it would burn all the way through his hand. Tom watched Bella lean closer, far more fascinated by her reaction than by the burning of his flesh. It was, after all, only pain. After a minute, Hermione turned to face the pair again, assuming the demonstration must be over, only to see that it was still going, the rune carving itself ever deeper, Bella entranced, and Tom seemingly immune to or entirely unconcerned about the pain.

“Tom!” Both he and Bella looked up, mutual fascination broken by Hermione’s interruption. “Enough!”

He dropped the spell and looked clinically at his hand, poking at it in an effort to see how far the rune had progressed. He thought it might have started to sink into the bone, but he couldn’t tell, as everything was equally charred. He made a face and allowed the wound to begin to heal. “Did you know, you sound exactly like Professor Russell when you say that? It’s uncanny.”

“Bloody hell, you lunatic, I turn around for a minute and you try to burn your fucking hand off?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. If I were going to burn a hand off, it would be _much_ more efficient to draw a line around the wrist. Or, you know, use a knife.”

Bella giggled, thinking that if you ignored what they were talking about, they sounded like an old married couple. Hermione glared at her. “You two,” she said, pointing from one to the other, “are not good for each other. Remember that, so I can say _I told you so_ , when everything ends in tears.”

Bella rolled her eyes, “Circe’s knickers, you sound like my _mother_. It’s not all going to end in tears. I’m a big girl, Hermione.” Hermione did, actually, remind Bellatrix of her mother, who was rather excitable and not a very good Slytherin, but she reminded her more of Cassie, who always wanted to take care of everyone.

“I still think we need to talk about tomorrow.” _Merlin’s balls_, thought Bellatrix resentfully. She had known this was coming. She had actually come here to get it over with. But that didn’t mean she was happy to have to explain herself to the older girl. It wasn’t _fair_. It was none of Hermione’s business _what_ Bellatrix did, let alone _why._

She looked at Tom with puppy-dog eyes. “Don’t look at me,” he said. “I already got my talking-to and said my piece.” He waved her away with his newly-intact hand, and returned to his reference books.

The younger girl glared at him, knowing he wouldn’t care, even if he noticed, and went to join Hermione on the bed, dragging her feet. Hermione flicked the curtains closed, and placed a silencing charm on them.

“What do you want to talk about?” asked Bella, hoping to make the situation as awkward for Hermione as it was for her.

“You know that, Bella. I’m worried about you. And Tom. But I guess the _question_ is really: Why do you want this?”

The worst part about all this, Bella thought, was that Hermione looked so ridiculously _sincere_ , like she really wanted to help somehow. “Why does it matter to you?” She flopped back on the bed so she wouldn’t have to meet the older girl’s eyes.

Hermione smiled to herself, glad that she had talked to Tom first. “That’s the first thing Tom asked me, too.”

“Because it’s none of your _business_.”

“It is my business, though. I’m _making_ it my business. Do you want to know why?”

“No.”

“There’s a few reasons,” Hermione continued, ignoring Bella’s response. “Mostly, I think it’s wrong, on a fundamental level, for people to hurt each other, and even more so to hurt a child, who can’t possibly deserve it… And partly because, well, I think there’s something wrong with asking for pain or hurting yourself, because it’s the opposite of everything that we strive for as people – pleasure and happiness and the _good_ in life… To reach for that… something must be broken… And also because you’re not a stranger anymore, and I think you need help… and I can’t help but want to help people who need it…”

Hermione had been pausing between sentences to give Bella a chance to join the conversation at any point. Finally she did. “Those are _shitty_ reasons.” _Could she sound any more like Cassie if she tried?_

“I don’t think so.” The older girl sounded somewhat offended.

“Well I do. Why should I tell you anything?”

“Because I want to _help_ you.”

“I don’t _need_ your help.” Bella had sat up and was glaring at Hermione. “And there’s nothing you can say that will make me tell you anything.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“Yes, I do. I don’t need your permission. _Tom_ doesn’t need your permission. What are you going to do? Tell Slughorn?”

Hermione hesitated for a moment, and decided to let it go. After all, she wasn’t _really_ going to go to Slughorn. She’d thought about it, of course, but the best case scenario there would be hers and Tom’s alliance falling apart. “How about a trade? A secret for a secret?”

“You think _you_ have a secret worth me telling you about my entire _life_?” Bellatrix crossed her arms and rolled her eyes, pretending as hard as possible that she wasn’t actually interested.

Hermione grinned. “More than one.”

“You go first. If it’s good enough, I’ll think about it.”

“First you have to make a vow,” said Hermione. “I’m not letting you run around with my secrets, free to tell the world.”

Bellatrix glared. That _was_ a good idea. “Only if you do.”

“Fine,” Hermione held up her wand. “I swear on my magic to keep secret any information that Bellatrix Black tells me in confidence, and not to act on any such information without her express permission.” A blue spark drifted from the wand-tip and split into two, to fall on the heads of each girl.

Bella sat up a bit straighter. Making vows was a serious business, after all. She dug her wand out of her pocket with some difficulty, and began to repeat the words. “I swear on my magic to keep secret any information that Hermione Granger tells me…” she trailed off where she became uncertain of the wording. It could be dangerous to say anything else in the middle of a vow.

Thankfully, Hermione seemed to realize what had happened. “In confidence, and not to act…”

“In confidence, and not to act,”

“On any such information…”

“On any such information,”

“Without her express permission.”

Bellatrix finished the vow, and her spark followed Hermione’s in its path to their heads. As soon as it disappeared, Bellatrix spoke, “So what’s your secret, that’s so secret that it’s worth my life’s story, and a magical vow of silence?” She still did not entirely believe that it could be _that_ good.

“Do you know why Tom wants my permission for this whole business?”

“No, I don’t.” Bellatrix had, actually, spent quite a bit of time wondering resentfully about that very question. “Why?”

“Well, part of it’s because Tom has no sense of how normal people will react to certain things, and didn’t know if he could trust you to keep things quiet.”

“I can keep a secret!” the younger girl said angrily.

“I’m sure you _can_ , but the question is whether you would _want_ to. So he wanted my opinion on whether I thought it was a good idea, and quite frankly, I still don’t, but not because you won’t keep it to yourself.”

“Why do you think it’s a bad idea, then?” She knew this was getting off track, but she wanted to know.

“Because I don’t think it’s good for Tom to indulge his sadistic side, and I don’t think it’s good for you to go through _more_ pain, just because the end product is pretty.” Bellatrix opened her mouth to protest, but Hermione continued, “That’s not the secret.”

“What is, then?”

“What do you know about Tom?”

“He’s a fourth-year, scares the other Slytherins, good listener, good at art, makes pretty wards?”

“About his family?”

“Oh,” she thought for a moment. “Not much. He’s a half-blood, probably. He was way too shocked that I knew all my family history on the train to be a pureblood, and Riddle’s not a Wizarding name anyway. But he’s a parselmouth, so he has to be descended from Slytherin somewhere along the line. He’s never mentioned his family, but that’s not surprising, since he’s so quiet. No one else has mentioned his family either, which _is_ weird, because it’s usually the first thing they tell you about other people in Slytherin – who their family are, connections and so on. Why?”

“We’ll get there. What do you know about me, my family?”

“Well, _you_ say you’re from America, and a half-blood. Your mum was a witch and you used to live with her; your dad was a muggle, and they sent you to come live with him in the middle of the Blitz because your mum died in some sort of horrible accident. It’s not true, though. Edmond thinks you sound too British, and the rest of us agree. The best Edmond and Scorpius have come up with is your parents are in Azkaban for something, and the ministry has had you in hiding from their enemies. They changed your name, and it’s only just now safe for you to come to school. Leo just smiles like he knows something the rest of us don’t, but he’s just being a prat.”

Hermione was shaking with silent laughter. “We did consider that, but decided it would be too easy to check.”

“So where are you from?”

“I’m not telling you that secret. Not yet. No. My secret is that I met Tom completely by accident this summer. We told everyone that Slughorn introduced us, but it was the other way around. His history is an epic tragedy. He probably won’t tell you. He is a half-blood, but through a series of unfortunate events, he was raised in a muggle orphanage.”

“What? Are you serious?”

Hermione nodded. “He never knew his family. I wound up in the orphanage after some unfortunate events of my own, and we made an alliance and ended up spending a lot of time together, just because we were the only people with magic around. One day, I made some joke about thinking of him as the little brother I never had, and apparently it touched a nerve.”

Bella looked as though this was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard. “What were you two doing, over the summer?”

“We, um… may or may not have conned Gringott’s out of almost three hundred galleons. Anyway,” Hermione glossed over Bella’s stunned objections, “he told me, the next day, that he’d never known his family, and how much it meant to him that I thought of him as a brother, and suggested we become blood-siblings.”

“Wait. What? You’re telling me that you and Tom Riddle spent the summer robbing Gringott’s, and then decided to do some kind of weird blood family ritual thing? Because Tom suggested it? That’s…” Bellatrix was completely lost for words. It just seemed like there was something _wrong_ about that story. Aside from the obvious.

“Not _robbing_ Gringott’s, exactly. Just… taking advantage of some rather idiotic ministry decisions regarding fixed conversion rates. And yes. We didn’t know, or at least _I_ didn’t know that the blood-sibling thing would turn into a real blood ritual. There’s this thing muggle children do, it’s supposed to be completely symbolic, but, well, with magic…”

Bellatrix shook her head violently. “I’m changing my guess. You’re not a half-blood. No way. Muggleborn. Or raised by muggles, like Tom. If your mum were really a witch, you would have known better!”

“I should have, yes. But I didn’t think.”

“So what happened?”

“We don’t really know. We have some sort of weird connection now, and matching scars,” Hermione showed the younger girl her left hand, “Tom’s got one on his hand, too. If we want to, we can kind of get into each other’s heads, and apparently we’re considered blood family for wards and things like that. Though it could just be that they’re Tom’s wards, and he thinks it should count.”

“So that’s the secret? You and Tom are blood-bound? That’s why he cares what you think about our arrangement?”

“That’s the first half. The second half is that we’ve taken formal vows of alliance with each other. He’s sworn by his magic to seriously take my council under advisement. He doesn’t have to do what I tell him, but he does have to actually think it through.”

Bellatrix was shaking her head again. “You two are insane. Absolutely mad.”

“If you knew half of what I know about Tom,” Hermione pointed out, “You’d want some kind of assurances that he wasn’t about to come murder you in your sleep as well.”

Bellatrix considered rolling her eyes at that, then remembered that Tom had carved Hermione’s back to ribbons on a whim and decided better of it. “Maybe. But _formal Vows of Alliance_? With the come-to-aid thing, and the common-causes?” Hermione nodded. “Those are for, like, entire nations. Major treaties, like we have with Gringott’s. Light and Dark Lords declaring a cease-fire. Noble houses putting down blood feuds, maybe. If it’s a _really_ old feud. Not for _teenagers_ to declare a _school alliance_.”

Hermione shrugged with a knowing smile. “I’m not going to tell you any more right now, but I swear, it was absolutely appropriate.”

Bellatrix made an inarticulate sound, which somehow managed to express both her disbelief and her shock, should the older girl _not_ be exaggerating.


	44. Part 2: The difference between Slytherins and Gryffindors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: more discussion of Bellatrix's childhood (physical and emotional abuse); references to suicide

5 September 1940

 “So are you ready to answer my question yet?” Hermione asked.

“It’s my choice. I shouldn’t have to explain it,” Bellatrix grumbled.

“I know,” Hermione said. “Tom pointed out last night that you asked for this, and I should respect you enough to respect your request, but I can’t believe that there’s ever a reason to ask for someone to hurt you. He talked a lot about scars and domination and what all that means, or might mean, in your world, so I can almost understand why you would go through the trauma of having the stripes removed, but beyond that…

“I just need to know, for the sake of my own sanity in going along with this madness, _why_ is it necessary?”

“You don’t have to be involved, you know.”

“I really do. And we made a deal. Spill.”

“You’re such a _Hufflepuff_ ,” Bellatrix said with a sigh. Hermione smiled. “It’s not about the pain, or mostly not. What Tom just did out there, hurting himself for no reason, and then just healing it, that’s crazy. I can’t help watching, like a broom crash or something, but I don’t want him to _hurt_ me.

“I _want_ him to mark something beautiful on my skin, make it a part of me. You’ve seen me. My scars. I’m hideous. I’ve been disfigured, on purpose, because I refuse to follow my Uncle’s rules and be the little doll he wants me to be.

“You said Tom told you what my scars mean,” the younger girl continued in a small voice. “What did he tell you?” She was curious what Tom thought of her, but she also hoped that maybe she could just say that he was right, and that would be enough.

Hermione hesitated a moment. “He said that the scars were a punishment beyond the physical; that they were meant to remind you that _they_ own you.” Bellatrix laid down abruptly so she wouldn’t have to meet the older girl’s eyes. Hermione continued, speaking softly. “And he said you’re defying them, your family, by asking him to touch you. That this is your way of declaring that you own your body, and that it will help you resist their attempts to break you when you go home again. He said, well… a lot of things that I don’t think he’d want me to repeat about dominance and submission and how he sees the world, but he said that the scars on your arms are your declaration that you have power over yourself just as much as they do, and that you would shatter before you would bow to their pressure. He thinks the only help you’re asking for is, and I quote, ‘showing those who would own her that she belongs only to herself, and to dominate her physically means _nothing._ ’”

Hermione saw a tear escape the younger girl’s eye and slide across her temple, into her hair. She sniffled. “He thinks rather highly of you, you know.”

Bella ignored the last comment. “He’s not wrong. But there’s more to it than that.

“You’re just a muggleborn, or muggleraised, or whatever, so you won’t _get_ it, but the only things I have going for me are my family name and my looks. My magic, too, if it turns out I’m an amazing witch, but it’s the name and the face that make the match. And that’s all a noble daughter is good for – her marriage prospects. If I’d been a boy, it would have been different, a little. But I have to marry someone who will take my name, or if there’s a boy born in my generation, they’ll just pass me over, anyway… it’s complicated.

“The important part, about the scars, is that making me ugly is making me _worthless_. For a girl of my station, beauty and value are _interchangeable_. They won’t cut my face, so they can still _sell_ me for a good match, but my husband would take one look at me on our wedding night and know that my family had thrown me away. He would know that he can do whatever he wants to me, and my family wouldn’t object. It’s not about making me hurt and remember the pain. If it were just that, they’d have put the scars where I have to see them. It’s about ruining my future, and grinding me down, making me believe I’m _nothing_.”

Hermione reached out tentatively and squeezed Bella’s hand. Bella let her. She hadn’t meant to tell the older girl all this, but now she couldn’t seem to stop talking.

“My mother told me that, you know.” Sniffle. “When I was six, and my uncle forbade her to heal me. I begged and pleaded and asked _why_ she wouldn’t stop it hurting, and she told me that it was my punishment, that Uncle had decided that I was too _childish_ , and I needed to learn my place in the world.” She laughed, a single harsh bark. “I don’t even remember what stupid rule I broke.”

The two girls sat in silence for a moment, Hermione thinking that this sounded even worse than the things Harry had told her about _his_ aunt and uncle, and Bellatrix trying to figure out how she had gotten on the subject of Uncle. Hermione reached out tentatively and petted Bella’s head, reminding the younger girl again of her favorite cousin. _Powers, Cass, why couldn’t you be here?_

“Do you know why so many heirs to noble houses come to Slytherin?” Bellatrix asked with a sniffle.

Hermione thought this seemed like a rather abrupt change of subject, but she shook her head. The girl wasn’t looking. “No.”

“My cousin Cassie told me this, when I was nine and she was thirteen. It was Solstice, and she found me hiding in the basement. I’d been caned, and had run away, and knew I couldn’t go back, because I’d get it twice as bad when I did.

“Cassie says Slytherin is for _survivors_. We’re the people who succeed, even with the entire world against us. They say Gryffindor is for the brave, but they’re not. They’re _idealists_ , maybe even when they’re afraid, and they think that’s bravery. They hold to noble values, but they haven’t been tested or pushed _past_ their limits, broken down, alone and betrayed. They rush in like fools because they haven’t seen how the world can beat you down.” Hermione wondered if that was true. She thought it might be, and it hurt to hear.

“ _Slytherin_ is for the brave, those of us who know exactly what the worst is, and have been made to think we aren’t worthy of love, or friendship, or compassion, but instead of collapsing in on ourselves, we stand up and refuse to give in, and we make our own way, at any costs. Because the only person you can rely on is _yourself_.

“That’s what growing up in a House like mine teaches you. That you’re worthless, and weak, and you should do as you’re told and toe the line. That _you_ are subservient to the _family_ , and that you must put the family ahead of yourself at all times. But it’s worse than that. They want you to fight back. If you do as you’re told, conform like they want you to, don’t resist, you really are weak, and unfit to lead the family. They start as soon as you can speak, find your flaws and hammer them until you shatter, break you into pieces, and re-build you as the perfect heir.

“You can’t let them see you break, and you can’t give in and you can’t fight back. There’s no right answers. There’s no support. You’re always fighting for your _self_ , and your right to say or do or _think_ anything, and the only way to _win_ is to keep playing until you’re on top, and then you have to train the next generation, and the one after that. It never, ever ends. You’re born fighting and you die fighting, and if you’re really, really lucky, someone might tell you all this, but mostly you have to figure it out for yourself.”

Bellatrix was crying openly, now, and had rolled onto her side, away from Hermione. “Cassie k-killed herself, last summer. Uncle sold her to the Goyles, told her she had no choice, took away her wand. She… she borrowed mine, and used the Killing Curse on herself. She told me that there’s _always_ a choice, and _said it_ , so _angry_ , and then… I watched her d-die…” She trailed off, shoulders shaking. “It doesn’t work if you don’t want it to work,” she whispered.

Eventually the girl rolled over again, tears wiped away on the inside collar of her robe. “When I saw what Tom did to you, I thought, it’s beautiful. It’s a scar and it’s _beautiful_. It’s the opposite of everything my family have tried to do to me. Asking him to do the same for me is… it’s taking away one of their weapons and using it against them. It’s declaring that I am _not_ worthless, despite their best efforts. _I will not be nothing_.” Bella sat up and looked at Hermione. “I couldn’t care less about the pain. I’m going to win this war.”

“Okay.” Hermione whispered the word, hardly trusting herself not to break into tears. It should have sounded silly, this eleven year old girl declaring that she was in a war, and she was going to win, but it didn’t. “Okay, Bella,” she said again. “If there’s anything I can do…”

“Call me _Bellatrix_ ,” said the younger girl, wiping her nose on her sleeve, her mask of spoiled haughtiness back in place, pretending for all she was worth that she hadn’t mentioned her cousin at all. “ _Bella_ means beauty. It’s what my family call me, rubbing it in that I’m _not_. _Bellatrix_ is the Amazon, the warrior lady, the one who _conquers_. And don’t tell anyone.”

Hermione smiled weakly. It was ironic, she thought, that Bella had never looked more beautiful than she did at that moment, eyes flashing, and rejecting beauty for war. She thought she could see hints of the woman that the child would one day become. “Okay. Bellatrix. What about Tom?”

“Fine, you can tell Tom, but only if he asks.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “He won’t.”

“I know,” Bella ( _Bellatrix_ , Hermione reminded herself) grinned. “He also calls me Bellatrix. I like that about him.”

“I think it’s just because he doesn’t use nicknames for anyone.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Bellatrix in a sing-song voice, opening the silenced curtains and bouncing off the bed. “Tom! Do you know what you’re going to draw on me?”

Hermione marveled at the girl’s ability to hide her emotions. If she hadn’t just heard it, she would never have guessed that the child had watched her cousin die just – what, months ago, weeks? That… surely wasn’t healthy? _That settles it_ , she thought, _I am going to find a way to help you, whether you want it or not… It’s too bad psychology won’t be a thing for another twenty years…_

…

Tom looked up from his enchanting notes. “Oh. I take it this means Hermione has agreed to our ‘mad endeavor’?” Hermione nodded. “Good. I would have been most displeased if you hadn’t.” He turned back to the younger girl, “Yes, Bellatrix I know what I’m going to do to you, and no, I won’t tell you, it’s a surprise.”

“But Tooooom,” Bellatrix whined, perching herself precariously on the arm of his chair and wrapping her arms around her knees. She looked like a giant owl. Hermione thought that this was quite possibly the cutest thing she had ever seen. “I want to knooooow.” Hermione giggled.

“No.” He set his books aside. “You said your classes end at four, correct?”

Bellatrix sighed. “Yes, Tom.” She had told him that at least three times already.

“Ours end at three. You should meet us here as soon as you can after class. We’ll see how far we can get removing your scars before dinner. From what I saw the other day, I think two hours should be enough, but I don’t know for sure. I’ve never skinned that much of a person before.”

Hermione, who had sat in the other armchair, leaned over to rest her head in one hand. “Tom, how long has it been since I’ve told you you’re creepy?”

“You told me I’m scary last night. Is that the same?”

“No. That was for activating and burning all the runes on the door ward in at once, wandlessly, after doing the same thing for the hall wards, _and_ having had a full day of classes already. Totally different kind of scary.”

Bellatrix’s eyes grew wide again. She wobbled on her perch and then sat instead, apparently deciding that falling off the chair would be embarrassing.

“Ah… Sunday, then? Probably Sunday.”

“Consider the counter reset.”

Tom rolled his eyes. “I’m just going to assume you’re going to call me creepy tomorrow as well. It’s not even worth it.”

“You burned _all_ the wards in at the same time? How long did it take you?”

“Ten minutes, maybe? Why?”

“Because that’s a _lot_ of power to throw around,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes. Trust Tom to not even realize when he was doing something insanely impressive. “Honestly, don’t you ever pay attention to anyone else in class?”

“No, why bother?” Tom inserted.

Hermione ignored him. “There’s a reason we use wands. Without a focus, you lose a ton of energy trying to perform magic. Most people don’t ever do much more than the wandless _tempus_ charm.”

 _“And_ ,” added Bellatrix, “It’s really hard to carve and activate your wards at the same time. We had wards added at the manor last summer and it took the wardcrafters most of a week to carve each individual rune with intent, and then another couple of _hours_ to activate them.”

Tom shrugged, and then smirked. There was a trick to it, of course, but he wasn’t going to give it away. “What can I say? I’m just that good.”

The girls were silent for a moment, then, “Tom,” said Hermione in a slightly impressed tone, “that was almost _suave_. Now you just need to say it like you’re _not_ a soulless automaton.”

Bellatrix sniggered.

“What?” asked Tom.

“It’s just… I thought you two were just having the other fourth-years on at dinner and so on… I had no idea you were really this weird all the time.”

“In point of fact,” said Hermione with a sniff, “I can be normal around other people. Tom’s the one who insists on being weird all the time.”

“That is a lie,” said Tom. “You’re just as weird as I am and you know it.”

“No one’s as weird as you are, Tom.”

The fourth-years carried on their banter for a few more minutes, but Hermione eventually sent Bellatrix to go finish her homework and go to bed. Tom went back to the journals, and Hermione started working her way through Shylock’s list of basic enchanting references. Tom left at eleven, and Hermione went to bed, content that she was on track with her classes and everything going on _outside_ of classes for the first time since she had arrived back at school.

 _Now_ , she thought, _I just need to find a way to save Bella and the other pureblood girls in her position, stop World War II and Grindelwald, and keep Tom on track to not become Lord Voldemort, figure out how to fight pureblood ideology, and I’ll sleep easy._ Then she had a rare moment of perspective, and laughed at herself for thinking that a fourteen-year-old girl from the future and her single sworn ally were going to save the world from itself. _But it doesn’t mean I’m not going to try. If Bella (Bellatrix!) can fight back, so can I._

She fell asleep with a smile on her face.


	45. Part 2: Friday Classes

6 September 1940

Friday dawned clear and crisp. The fourth-years made their way directly after breakfast to their first Herbology lesson of the term. As in Hermione’s time, Herbology was taught in the greenhouses, even the lecture portions of the class.

After Professor Sprout concluded her introductory speech and her first lecture on the cross-breeding of various magical plants, the class was set to work re-potting African Stranglers. Their first project for the semester would be to splice their Stranglers with Eelweed, which they would spend the next class period collecting from the lake. The eventual goal of this project was supposedly to produce a hybrid vine which produced characteristic Eelweed Floater-pods (a key ingredient in a number of gravity-defying potions) but lived on land, more convenient for collection purposes.

While Hermione could appreciate in theory the relative ease with which this would allow for the collection of the Floater-pods, she did not enjoy working with plants or _dirt_. In short, she believed that Herbology was a useful and important subject, best left to those who actually _enjoyed_ getting their hands dirty.

Tom did enjoy getting his hands dirty, and being out of the castle, but he had an unfortunate tendency to ignore Professor Sprout’s instructions after the initial goal, such as “repotting the Stranglers,” was stated. He had already killed two, and was fighting his third homicidal plant with fire, rather than the oxygen-flooding spell the Professor had recommended for this very purpose.

Tom did not consider Herbology to be even theoretically important, viewing it as a pointless, ridiculous requirement, with no real inherent value. Professor Sprout had long since given up on teaching him anything. It was the only course in which Tom routinely earned any marks lower than an ‘E’, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He wasn’t interested in the OWL, and was still in the class only because he had failed to convince Slughorn that he should be allowed an exemption on the grounds that it was a useless subject.

The students were standing at a long work-bench, ten along one side, and eleven to the other. Tom, who routinely destroyed plants, pots, and any nearby supplies in his attempts to subdue the more vicious plants while refusing to use the recommended techniques, was isolated at one end of the table. Even Hermione, when she realized that he was going to attempt to re-pot his Stranglers without sedating them, had edged away, leaving a meter-wide safety zone around him. She was instead chatting to Lina and Aggie as the three of them worked their way through a pallet of properly-subdued Strangler sprouts.

The three girls spent the four hour block talking about classes, homework and their opinions of the various staff, the Gryffindors providing a somewhat more rounded perspective than Tom had, when Hermione had asked him about their instructors. It was, Hermione thought, very nice to talk to someone who wasn’t Tom, about something that wasn’t incredibly heavy and dark.

Dumbledore was widely regarded as the best professor for the required classes, being generous with points and giving full explanations, but little homework. Most students found him to be very personable, unless they managed to somehow earn his enmity, in which case he was still fair – you would never get poor marks just because he disliked you – but incredibly aloof and generally unhelpful (Hermione noted that this was still very unprofessional of him. The others made non-committal noises.). Of the twenty-one students in fourth-year, only Tom (and now apparently Hermione) was on the list of students Dumbledore openly disliked. He was the head of Gryffindor house, and slightly favored his own students, though, the girls of that House noted, he was rather absentminded and never made any attempts to help any of them outside of class. He was rumored to be immensely powerful, though he didn’t often show off at the school, and Lina had also heard that he was taking steps against Grindelwald, as they had once been friends, and it was popularly believed that only Dumbledore had the power-levels needed to defeat the Dark Lord.

Flitwick was well-loved by the Ravenclaws, an alumnus of the House, but had not been appointed Head when the position had been open over the summer. Professor Sanchez, who had been the old Astronomy professor, had chosen not to renew her contract, in favor of “doing research or something” (Aggie’s words) in the Americas. She had been the head of Ravenclaw for fifteen years, and when she left, the Ravens had been split between Professors Flitwick and Russell to take over. Flitwick had actually won the popular vote by a slim margin, but Headmaster Dippet had decided that he did not have the personality or experience necessary for a head of house, especially since he was a relatively new professor himself. Flitwick was seen as being very enthusiastic about his subject, and was very concerned about his students’ progress. He was always available outside of class, as well, but he assigned much more homework than Dumbledore, which meant that only the Ravens considered him the better of the two professors. He was an ex-professional duelist, and part goblin (which meant that there were many students and possibly a few professors who hated him for being a halfbreed), and though rumors abounded, no one knew why he had suddenly decided five years previously to join the Hogwarts staff. Aggie’s favorite had to do with a jilted lover, but Lina thought it was more likely he had done something to peeve off the goblin king, and had had to take a break from the public eye.

All Aggie and Lina would say about Professor Sprout, with her wandering the greenhouse, was that she was also clearly enthusiastic about her subject, but was seen as somewhat of a recluse, as she spent most of her time in the greenhouses or out on the grounds, and only attended meals in the Great Hall on special occasions. She, like Flitwick, had started at Hogwarts a few years previously, but as she was so rarely seen outside of classes and she had no interesting or mysterious past that anyone knew about, there was far less gossip about her reasons for doing so.

Professor Slughorn, Hermione’s head of house, was seen as lazy by most students, given his habit of simply assigning the day’s tasks without lecturing, making his apprentice, Stibbons, teach the first and second years, and disappearing as soon as class was over. Most of them didn’t like him, and considered him somewhat _oily_ and off-putting, with his Slug Club and the way he would sneak up behind you in the potions lab. Neither Aggie nor Lina could tell Hermione why Slughorn had been given the head of Slytherin position, though they were fairly certain that his sheer obsequiousness was the reason he had been put in the House to begin with. Hermione thought there might not have been anyone else for the job, as she couldn’t think of anyone else on the staff who might have been a Slytherin. She was informed that both Turner and Sedgwick had belonged to her house, though neither of them would have been working at the school when Slughorn was appointed.

If Hermione had had to guess, she would have thought that Professor Sedgwick was a Gryffindor. Most of the more martial or heroic-minded in the 1990s had been, but apparently not now. He had been around for at least ten years, the Gryffindors thought, and had been an auror before that. It was an open secret that he and Madam Turner had some kind of history, outside of Hogwarts (maybe in India, Aggie suggested), and it was rumored that he had come to the school pursuing her. He was as enthusiastic about his subject in his way as Flitwick was, but as Sedgwick was a “right bastard” (according to Lina, though the other girls agreed), this enthusiasm came across in the form of punishingly difficult homework assignments, and a certain amount of cut-throat viciousness in class and in his War Games Club. The Gryffindors thought that Sedgwick might have a good attitude for a time of war, but that didn’t mean they really _appreciated_ his teaching methods. He was, perhaps paradoxically, one of the more laid-back professors in his lecturing, but he placed so much emphasis on the practical (and sheer bloody-minded ruthlessness) that the only student in their year who ever earned an ‘Outstanding’ on Sedgwick’s exams was Tom. The Gryffindors were of the opinion that this was due to the fact that Tom, like Sedgwick, was a vicious bastard. Watching Tom knot two African Strangler vines together and wrench them out of their pots, Hermione could hardly disagree.

Professor Binns was more highly regarded for his teaching style than Sedgwick, being a similarly interesting lecturer, but giving slightly less homework, and not going out of his way to make his students feel stupid. History itself was not a very popular class, as no magic was actually taught. Hermione almost gave herself away in telling the other girls that Binns was _much_ more interesting than she had expected. She quickly covered saying that her previous history tutor had been drop-dead boring to listen to, and hadn’t known much about Old World Magical History other than the Goblin Wars, and wasn’t that really where Western magical culture had really developed? Aggie rolled her eyes and accused Hermione of being a Raven at heart, while Lina groaned. Apparently the second and third-year History of Magic classes covered the development of Western magical practices from Egypt to Greece to Rome up to Merlin. Extensively. Aggie changed the subject quickly to forestall Hermione asking her and Lina to recite the entire history of Wizarding Europe through the Carolingian period.

Leicaster rounded out the roster of professors for required classes, and there was little the Gryffindors could tell Hermione about her, as she was new this year. She was currently the only Hogwarts professor who hadn’t been a Hogwarts student, and all three of the girls were intrigued by the notion that she had spent time working with Centaurs, who gave off an aura of fear and sex which made it impossible for most women to work around them. Moreover, they were a very macho society, which meant that a woman had to be seriously impressive in some way for any centaur to take notice of her as more than a potential victim.

The only professor Hermione hadn’t met was Action, pronounced ACT-ee-on, not like the verb, as Tom had told her. The Gryffindors giggled over this for a minute, Aggie secretly pleased that Tom took the piss out of Hermione, too. Action was the head of Hufflepuff House, and the students thought that he was the oldest professor on the staff. He had graduated with Dippet, and both of them had to be in their eighties at least. The older Gryffindors, who were generally the top of the Care of Magical Creatures class, once they reached the more dangerous class four and five creatures, had built up a certain degree of report with the old professor, and were working on convincing him to tell them stories about Binns, Sprout, and McKinnon, all of whom had been students in his House over the years. Action’s class, like Sprout’s, was very hands-on. It was fairly well-known that the professor had worked with different magical creatures for nearly twenty years before being seriously injured in an incident involving a griffin in Mongolia, and retiring to Hogwarts to teach. He had a muggle wife who lived at the castle, the girls knew, and several children and grandchildren, though all of his children and their families had immigrated to the States or Australia when Grindelwald began gaining followers with his Blood Purity rhetoric.

John McKinnon was the favorite professor, bar none, of all the students who took his class. He was even more personable than Dumbledore, and more approachable than Flitwick. It certainly didn’t hurt that he was the youngest and most attractive of the male professors. His mother was Italian, and he would sometimes speak that language when he was excited about something. He asked all of his NEWT students to call him ‘John’ and went out of his way to make sure that all of the third-years were catching on well to his subject, which was, after all, rather different from anything else they learned up to that point. The Gryffindors reassured Hermione that she would be caught up in no time, and expressed their envy that she would be having private lessons with him. He had spent his early twenties, the girls thought, working as a mind-healer for St. Mungo’s. He had told some of his older students that he simply needed a change of scenery after looking at damaged minds all day for five years, but the student body as a whole found this an unsatisfactory reason for him to have turned to teaching, and delighted in making up stories to explain why he should have come to Hogwarts. Hermione thought that the given reason was a perfectly valid explanation, and rolled her eyes at the “more interesting” explanations Aggie offered.

Little was known about Professor Russell, head of Ravenclaw, outside of class, and there was little speculation about her. The most interesting thing, Lina explained, about Russell, was that anyone who thought too hard about the woman started to feel intensely uneasy, and their minds instinctively turned to other topics. Hermione took note of the phenomenon as the discussion turned to Professor Shylock instead.

Shylock was a Ravenclaw alumna, and, as Hermione had seen in her first class, intensely enthusiastic about the applications of her subject. She was in her mid-thirties, and the Gryffindors said that she had graduated just a few years behind Dumbledore. She had done independent research on runework for a few years in Germany, but had come home when she ran out of funds, and immediately took the post of Runes Professor. She had two enchanting apprentices, Demosthenes Nott and Antigone Chelais, who were rarely seen around the castle. The Gryffindors found her rather boring, and had little to say about her. There was some speculation on Lina’s part that she and Dumbledore had some sort of a _thing_ , but Aggie pointed out that the reason Dumbledore didn’t like McKinnon was that McKinnon had rebuffed the older man’s advances. Dumbledore, therefore, was likely not interested in Madam Shylock, and probably never had been. The fact that they were close in age really wasn’t a good reason to suppose a relationship between the two of them. Lina snapped that the Dumbledore/McKinnon rumor was entirely unconfirmed. Aggie explained that Lina was a bit sore on homosexuals, lately, as her older brother had recently refused to marry and subsequently been disowned due to his own inclinations. Lina glared at her and refused to speak to her directly for the remaining thirty minutes of the lesson.

The only remaining adults in the castle were Madam Lyntz, who was also called Lady Margolotta, and Madam Turner, who was sometimes called Kitty by Professor Sedgwick, but never by anyone else. Madam Lyntz was the librarian, and literally nothing was known about her, except that she looked like a vampire, moved silently, and could always find you the exact book you were thinking of, even if you couldn’t remember anything about it except that it was vaguely related to this one subject and was maybe blue. Or possibly green. It was, Aggie said, _uncanny_. Only Slytherin underclassmen routinely studied in the library, because, the Gryffindors had heard, their Common Room was _even more disconcerting_ than _Madam Lyntz_. Hermione admitted it was true that most of the Slytherins were uneasy in Slytherin, though she still didn’t understand it herself.

Madam Turner was by far the most popular topic of gossip when it came to the Hogwarts Faculty and Staff. Five rumors had been more or less confirmed by Turner herself, or one of the other staff: She was a Slytherin alumna. She was raised in the Raj. She and Sedgwick had some sort of love-hate on and off relationship. She was trained as a Healer, and had worked at St. Mungo’s for a time, but may or may not have taken the Healers’ Vow. Finally, she had disappeared for several years between graduating and returning to take the school’s hospital wing in hand. She was clearly mysterious, and anyone who had met her knew that she was _awfully_ dark for a healer. No one knew how powerful she was, but the older students said she had given _Dumbledore_ a run for his money about five years back at the First Ever Dueling Club Meeting, and Aggie pointed out that _no one_ countermanded her orders, when she chose to give them. Not even Dippet. There had apparently been an _incident_ , two years prior, which no one was to speak about on pain of a month’s detentions, should Dippet hear of it. If Grindelwald made it to Hogwarts and put the castle under siege, Lina said, it was a toss-up whether Turner or Sedgwick would be in charge. Most of the explanations of her mysterious missing years placed her as a doing something incredibly dangerous in the far reaches of the Empire, but the specifics varied. The Gryffindors were just telling Hermione about the possibility that Turner had been a member of the Ministry’s Shadow Corp, sent to subdue a rebellion in South Africa, when Professor Sprout dismissed the class for lunch. 

The Gryffindors joined the Hufflepuffs on the way back to the castle, and Hermione rejoined the Slytherins. Scorpius tried to tease her for several minutes for associating with Gryffindors, but let it go in order to defend himself when Edmond and Leo brought up his trying to “accidentally” spill water on Amy Pond’s chest halfway through the lesson, and started laying bets on her most likely form of retaliation.

Hermione spent most of the walk back to the castle, and the subsequent meal, trying to convince Tom that there was some inherent value in Herbology as a subject, and that he therefore should listen to the professor and not kill the plants, but failing miserably because she herself did not particularly enjoy it. As Tom pointed out, he had much more fun completely ignoring Professor Sprout, and he had never actually been _hurt_ by doing so. Hermione countered that the marks on his wrists, from where the African Stranglers had apparently ganged up on him and tried to hold him down begged to differ, but he argued that he had won in the end, so it didn’t matter. She rolled her eyes, but had let the conversation drop by the time they reached Astronomy, mostly because she had caught herself wanting to agree that there was no point in trying to excel in such a boring subject. Surely the very minimum amount of effort necessary for an ‘O’ should be sufficient?

Like Herbology, Hermione traditionally disliked Astronomy. Most of what she had been taught in her previous three years’ study of the subject could, she felt, be found in reference books, should she ever need it. Professor Leicaster’s first lecture, however, was an entirely new introduction to the subject and its potential uses. The Slytherin girl sat in rapt attention as the young professor expounded on the role of astronomical influences on various types of magic, from the increased potency of Light and Dark spells according to the solar calendar; to lunar influences on alchemy; to the use of star charts to determine the most suitable time for a ritual, or the most suitable runic language for an invocation or enchanting, or the strongest influences in an individual’s life; to the relationship between astronomy and astrology. By the end of the lesson, Hermione felt as though her hand was likely to fall off, she had taken such extensive notes, and when she stood up, she found that someone had placed a message by her right elbow without her even noticing.

The note, which she read as Tom dragged her back to her room to prepare for Bellatrix’s arrival, was an invitation to something called the Hufflepuff Back-to-School Bash on Saturday evening. She should RSVP to Cherie by Saturday lunch, so they could plan accordingly.

Hermione decided that she would think about it, and let the girls know at dinner.


	46. Interlude: First Staff Meeting

**Minutes of the Hogwarts’ School of Witchcraft and Wizardry Staff Meeting dated Friday 6 September, 1940**

**Filius Flitwick, Recording**

**Headmaster Dippet, Deputy Headmaster Dumbledore, Professors Action, Binns, Flitwick, Leicaster, McKinnon, Russell, Sedgwick, Shylock, Slughorn and Sprout, Staff Members Turner and Lyntz, and Elf Representative Larkeen present and accounted for.**

16:25

 **Dippet** : Got the recording charms working, Fil?

 **Flitwick** : Yes, sir.

 **Dippet** : Right then, let’s get started, shall we? Do we have any outstanding business from the last meeting?

 **Flitwick** : Last meeting was held on the first of August. Points to be revisited, in order of their entry on the docket, include:

  1.        Madam Turner – concerns about Professor Slughorn’s proposed potions regimen for the fourth-years: Is it really appropriate to have students making potions such as polyjuice, felix felisis, veritasserum, or the nightmares of Lethe?
  2.        Professor Sprout – concerns about Professor Leicaster – Make a note to make sure she is adjusting well to the school, not having any problems finding her way around and so on?
  3.        Head Elf Larkeen – questions related to provisioning the Castle in light of the ongoing Muggle war
  4.        Headmaster Dippet – Report regarding ongoing negotiations with the Wizengamot regarding funding for the School and subsequent budget concerns
  5.        Madam Lyntz – Request for funding and/or Acquisitions Specialists to track down several rare and dangerous Dark texts which really should be in the Restricted Section and not out in the world
  6.        Professor Russell – Make sure we discuss changes in the student body – early departures and whatnot.
  7.        Professor Slughorn – Hermione Granger, that new transfer from America
  8.        Professor Binns – Any news on new OWL and NEWT expectations from the Ministry?



**Dippet** : Alright. Read those off again one at a time if you would be so kind, and we’ll address them in turn.

 **Flitwick** : First was Madam Turner’s inquiry as to the appropriateness of students producing polyjuice, felix felisis, veritasserum, and the nightmares of Lethe in addition to several other, less dangerous potions.

 **Dippet** : Right, then. Horace, would you care to respond?

 **Slughorn** : Of course, my dear sirs and ladies. There is little to no chance whatsoever that any student will successfully brew any of the potions on that list. As I assured you at the last meeting, Madam Turner, the point of the fourth-year brewing schedule is to teach the students the value of planning ahead, and the many mistakes that can be made in brewing complex potions. Their grades will depend on how they deal with setbacks, not the final products.

 **Turner** : _Little_ to no chance? Last month it was _no_ chance.

 **Slughorn** : Well, one of the groups is arguably somewhat more advanced than the others, and is so far on target to complete the Polyjuice correctly, but they’re less than a fifth of the way done. The chances that they will succeed are still ridiculously low. It’s not a concern.

 **Dumbledore** : Might I ask which group this is?

 **Slughorn** : Certainly, certainly. One of your Gryffindors, Augusta Bones, and two of my own Slytherins –

 **Dumbledore** : Let me guess – Tom Riddle and Hermione Granger.

 **Slughorn** : Yes, of course. Though you wouldn’t really expect it to be any of the others, would you?

[hastily stifled laughter]

 **Dumbledore** : I’m concerned, Horace, that you allow that boy too much leeway. He’s going to disappoint you, in the end.

 **Slughorn** : I’ll thank you not to interfere in the way I run my house, Albus. Tom Riddle’s a good boy. Very bright, never retaliates when the other boys pick on him (Madam Turner snorts at this). He’s going to do great things. Mark my words.

 **Dumbledore** : I never doubted _that_.

 **Dippet** : Albus! Horace! Drop it. This is not the time or the place. Madam Turner, are you satisfied with this response?

 **Turner** : No, but I doubt I’ll convince you to change your mind, as they’ve already started now. Do me a favor, Horace, and keep an eye on exactly which mistakes they’re making so I can be ready with antidotes when they poison each other with their poorly-made truth serums.

 **Slughorn** : Yes, Madam Turner.

 **Dippet** : Second order of business, Fil?

 **Flitwick** : Pomona was concerned about how Lilith would be adjusting well to the school, ‘not having any problems finding her way around and so on?’

 **Dippet** : Well, that one seems easily enough addressed. Lilith, everything going alright?

 **Leicaster** : Yes, sir. No trouble in any of my classes. The first-years are a particular treat. And I’ve gotten lost a few times, but the portraits have been a great help in navigating the Castle.

 **Dippet** : Good, good. Right then –

 **Leicaster** : Wait, sir, there is one thing…

 **Dippet** : Yes, dear?

 **Leicaster** : I’ve arranged a meeting on the night of the full moon with the leader of the centaur tribe here in the forest, to continue my research and pass along news from the centaurs I worked with in Greece and France. Is there anything I ought to know before I go? About the Forbidden Forest, I mean.

 **Dippet** : Well, I certainly wouldn’t recommend just wandering off in there. Larry, Don, any advice?

 **Sedgwick** : You’d be best off waiting until one of us could come with you and show you around, really. Load of dangerous beasties out there. Wouldn’t do to be caught off guard.

 **Sprout** : And the plants aren’t much better.

 **Dumbledore** : Come now, you’re going to scare the poor girl. You’ll be fine, I’m sure, if you keep your wits about you.

 **Sedgwick** : Load of toss. No one should be going in that forest alone. I wouldn’t, for all I’ve years of experience with the sort of things that lurk out there.

 **Dumbledore** : She wouldn’t be alone, though. The centaurs would be sure to keep away any of the less savory creatures.

 **Dippet** : There you have it, Miss Leicaster. Talk to Larry or Don after the meeting about getting an escort, or you’ll have to risk it with just the centaurs.

 **Sedgwick** : But—

 **Dippet** : Moving on. Fil?

 **Flitwick** : The elves’ request regarding importing provisions.

 **Dippet** : I am happy to report that we have received special permissions from the minister to import whatever you need from the Americas, though you’ll have to work out the transfers with the elves on the other side, as I understand it. Bring me a list of estimated costs by the end of the week, if you could.

 **Larkeen** : Yes, Master Dippet, sir. Thank you for speaksing with Minister for us poor elvses. Is a hard time, making meals with no supplies.

 **Dippet** : Quite. Next item?

 **Flitwick** : Funding and Budgets.

 **Dippet** : Still tabled. They’ve sworn they’ll get to our funding request at the next session, for the last three sessions. Until then, we’re operating under the assumption that we’ll have at least the same provisions as last year. Next?

 **Flitwick** : Lady Margolotta’s request for book hunters and/or funding to go after Dark texts.

 **Dippet** : I’m afraid I can’t approve that until I get a look at my funding reports from the ministry.

 **Lyntz** : Table it. It _is_ rather urgent, though, in the grand scheme of things. This is the sort of information you don’t want floating around while there is a Dark Lord on the loose. People get tempted to fight fire with fire, and before you know it, you’ve got _two_ Dark Lords and a host of lesser practitioners meddling with forces beyond their control.

 **Dippet** : Fine, fine. I’ll prioritize it over new furniture and so on. But there’s nothing I can do at the moment. My hands are tied. Next?

 **Flitwick** : Unexpected changes to the student body – early departures and new transfers, I think it’s safe enough to lump them together here.

 **Dippet** : Let’s go through by House. Albus?

 **Dumbledore** : No drop outs or transfers. I had thought that Agnes Fawley might not return, but it appears the Macmillans have allowed her to delay the engagement until her graduation. Donovan?

 **Action** : No drop outs or transfers for the upper classes. The girls are all wanting their NEWTs, these days. But I had two second-years not return. Gruenfelter and Blumengeld. Families immigrated to the States. Russell?

 **Russell** : Too right they do. I think my sixth-year Ravens would fight tooth and nail to stick around. I lost a third-year, Fischer. Her parents moved her to Australia. No other drop outs or transfers. Horace, I can see you’re just itching to say it.

 **Slughorn** : I got the transfer, and she’s doing quite well, so far.

 **Russell** : Didn’t you also lose a sixth-year?

 **Slughorn** : Yes, well, one can’t help but expect some of the old families to pull their girls out. Cassiopia Rosier. She was engaged to Maximus Goyle, who just graduated. I expect to be invited to their wedding come spring.

 **Flitwick** : Of course you are.

 **Dippet** : What was that, Fil?

 **Flitwick** : Nothing sir. Last order of old business is new OWL and NEWT requirements: are there any, and if so what?

 **Dippet** : No news yet. Probably send them out round midwinter again, with my luck.

 **Binns** : Keep it tabled, if you would.

 **Dippet** : That brings us to new business, eh? First thing’s first: How was everyone’s first week back? We’ll go around the table, I should think.

_[much shuffling of parchment as everyone references their notes]_

**Action** : Why do I always have to go first? Don’t answer that, Aro. Third years are doing well, I spent the week taking them around the kennels and mews, introducing them. No real work done, yet. Fourth years are doing as well as could be expected. Don’t seem to have forgotten quite as much as I’d thought they might. Fifth year’s more than making up for it though. I despair for their OWLs, I really do. Not one of them could tell me the most likely habitat of a Bowtruckle, though of course they did a bit better with the fourth-year things, pixies and so on. Sixth years were getting on me about never giving them anything fun and exciting, so I’m planning to take them into the Forest this coming week to see who can see a Thestral. Seventh years were thrilled when I said we’d be starting out on the aquatic species, spending most of the month in the lake. They’re brushing up on their Bubble-heads and Heating Charms this weekend. We’ll see if they’re as excited after we get done with Shrieking Eels. But so far so good.

 **Binns** : Most of my students seem to be engaged, on the whole. I’ll be able to say more when they’ve got their first essays in. No one’s fallen asleep in lecture yet. [chuckling]

 **Slughorn** : Right. First years did the Boil Cure Potion this past week just to see where everyone stands. Looks like about half of them have never touched a cauldron in their lives, which is about average. We had two minor mishaps, but no one sent to the hospital wing yet. Second years spent the week reviewing safety protocols, as we’re working with more explosive ingredients next week. Third years started with the Rosier-Prince-Dagnouth Teaching Draught, they’re writing up a report on their mistakes this weekend. We’ll be brewing it twice more throughout the semester, to see if their technique can be improved upon and how. Fourth years, as we’ve already discussed, most of them haven’t gotten too far. The Granger girl clearly has some experience brewing polyjuice – she’s the one leading her group, not Riddle, Albus. They started on Monday, while the others waited until Wednesday. The Hufflepuff girls had a minor mishap, again nothing hospital-worthy. Fifth-years, they’re starting with antidotes, so I handed them each one of the seventh-years’ final projects from last year, and they’re analyzing the components. Sixth-years are brewing Amortentia this term, somewhat like the fourth-years’ long-haul projects, but they’re being graded on the final result, as well. They seem to be off to a good enough start. The Potioneering class is working on Healing draughts this term, reverse engineering them. So they’re doing the same as the fifth-years, looking into principle components.

 **Russell** : No complaints yet. As Don was saying, the fourth-years seem to be doing quite well, but the fifth-years seem to have left their brains on holiday. NEWT students are getting back into the swing of things rather quickly. They seem to be excited about their projects, and are expected to have the details sorted by the end of next week.

 **Shylock** : I think I’ve intimidated my third-years a bit, but the other classes are quite willing to hit the books, and even more excited to apply things. I’ve been looking through their first assignments, and there have been several outstanding first attempts. Even the fifth-years seem to be with it. Notable essays include: Nicolette Fortescue, Morgana Yaxley, Arthur Yaxley, Morgana Macmillan, Angus Longbottom, Dorothy Parsons, Amicus Doge, Anna Maria von Neiss, Maggie Prewett, Claudius Prince, Leslie Benton, Thea Malfoy, Fil Locke, Hermione Granger, and Tom Riddle. Each of these students will receive five points for their house for their first week’s performance.

 **Sedgwick** : All of the third-years, most of the fourth-years, and a good three-quarters of OWL and NEWT students have completely forgotten everything they knew about tactical positioning over the summer. Riddle’s a notable exception, can’t say for Granger as she’s new herself, but the two of them were the only fourth-years to put up a fight, which is worth something, even if they did stun each other at the end. For the upper years, the Snakes and Ravens put up the best defense on the fly, though a special mention goes to the Terrors – they managed to hole themselves up in the announcers’ box, and I couldn’t weed them out in the allotted time. Not really a good long-term strategy, getting under siege, but it worked within the constraints. Second years seem to be fairly competent at the things we covered toward the end of last year, though they’re sketchy on the things from the first term. First years, it’s already clear that Selwyn, Burke, and Avery have no talent for the subject. Greengrass, Quicke and Pierce seem to have a bit of a hand for it. Good at dodging, at least.

 **Turner** : You seem to have neglected to mention, Lawrence, the number of students who found their way from your classes into my infirmary, four, was it, on Monday? Selwyn, Burke, Avery, and Goyle. Not to mention Miss Granger showing up on the verge of magical exhaustion.

 **Sedgwick** : Goyle hit his head falling off the stage! I take no responsibility for his idiocy. And why was Granger there? She was conscious and walking around when she left my class.

 **Turner** : Detention. First one of the year, in fact. Showed up and did the work I assigned, nevermind she was half-dead from magical exhaustion.

 **Dumbledore** : Stop glaring at me like that! She was going to blow up the Transfiguration wing.

 **Turner** : And you couldn’t have said, stop, wait, don’t do that? You really had to assign a detention on the second day of classes? You only have twenty-one fourth-years, Albus. Stun them if you have to.

 **Dumbledore** : I –

 **Turner** : Wait your turn, Albus! [incoherent grumbling from Dumbledore] So. All the potions stores are up to snuff, and I had the girl double check and rotate my inventory. I’ve nothing for anyone to do for the next week, so you’d best assign detentions with someone else, anyway. For inter-student conflict, I had one of the second-year Slytherins come to me with what looked like the after-effects of a bad lightning hex, though she wouldn’t say who’d done it, so it was probably something she got off one of the older Slytherins’ room-wards. And Rosier, Prince, MacAbee, Carrow, Pope, Weasley, and Arthur Yaxley were all in my office on Thursday. The Gryffindors claimed the Slytherins started it, and the Slytherins claimed the opposite, of course. I took points from both prefects for participating and thinking that would stop them from being punished. Thea Malfoy showed up today at lunch with a massive boil on her arse, courtesy of her brother, no doubt, though she said she didn’t see who sent it. That’s it for me.

 **Lyntz** : Nothing notable in the library for the first week.

 **Flitwick** : Madam Turner, I couldn’t help but notice that you didn’t mention Granger bringing Riddle in that first Tuesday?

 **Turner** : That would be because I didn’t see him.

 **Flitwick** : I dismissed him from class early. The students were practicing Cheering Charms, and I suspect someone sent something overpowered at him, whether or not it was a Cheering Charm, I couldn’t really say. He fell out of his seat, and I sent him along to you to be checked out.

 **Turner** : Well, he must have gotten lost along the way, and I have to say, so much the better. I promised him I’d reverse his feet if he sent anyone to the Hospital wing in the first week again. He’s been avoiding me like the pox. Working out quite well, if I do say so.

 **Slughorn** : Come now, Kat, you can’t still be holding him responsible for that business with the Gryffindors and the whelks?

 **Turner** : I can and I will. I may not be able to prove it, but he’s as good as admitted it by not contesting the edict.

 **Dumbledore** (to Dippet): I swear, I don’t understand half of what goes on between Slytherins.

 **Turner** : I heard that, Albus. And just because you aren’t canny enough to get it, doesn’t mean that I’m not right. Don’t you dare malign my House! Filius, you were saying?

 **Flitwick** : Yes, ah. Hrm. The first-years are showing about an average aptitude for the basics. Always a bell curve, you know. Second through fifth-years were mostly reviewing this week, and it seems to be coming back to them well enough. NEWT students are researching different charms they’d like to try to master this year. Three each, I think, is fair, and then I’ll have them teach the spells to anyone who wants to learn them in the NEWT class. No complaints, aside from that strange business with Riddle and the Cheering Charms.

 **Dumbledore** : What’s that, then?

 **Flitwick** : Riddle is the first person I’ve ever met who has no aptitude whatsoever for emotionally charged spells. It seems he’s finally catching on, though. I think the Granger girl is helping him. At the moment, he’s casting the Cheering Charm more like the Excitement Spell, you know the one, inverse variation on that first-aid spell. Just the physical side of it, no positive or negative emotional investment, really. But getting closer, I’d say, and if you’re _expecting_ the Cheering Charm, it has the proper effects. Certainly good enough to be getting on with.

 **Dumbledore** : Interesting.

 **Leicaster** : I’ve already said, no problems with any of my classes. I’ve spent the week figuring out where everyone is to start, and this weekend’s for planning lessons to go from here.

 **McKinnon** : Well, you all know Divination’s a bit of a tricky subject for students who are used to wands. The third-years and Granger are about where you’d expect, as they’ve never done magic like this before. I’ve a meeting with Granger about it tomorrow morning to see if she will be keeping the class. On the plus side, there’s very little that the other fourth-years could have forgotten, so that’s nice. They’re all doing quite well. Riddle’s a bit ahead of the curve, I’m afraid. I may have to give him extra work to keep him busy. He was distracting Granger in class, and she really does need the time for the basics. Fifth-years are starting on the future, and we’re going at it from scratch, having them enchant their own bowls or mirrors. Amber, you may have a few of them coming to you, if they aren’t already taking Runes. Viola Greengrass and Millicent Kendry got into a bit of a tiff, but it was nothing to do with class. I believe they both wanted to ask Dan Bones to the Hufflepuff party tomorrow. No matter. You know I don’t have many NEWT students pursuing the mind arts. The children of the old families already know their Occlumency, and the muggleborn and halfblood students don’t have the same paranoid mindset that you really need if you’re trying to learn it after the age of seven or so. Just the same, the few that I do have are working diligently, and the NEWT Divs students are brushing up on probability theory, since they’ll be working on figuring out which bits of the future are actually likely to happen.

 **Sprout** : You know how the students are about Herbology. About half of them think it’s an easy ‘O’, and the other half don’t see the point at all, or don’t care for it. I’ve got one or two in each year who really have an aptitude for it, and for the most part the ones who don’t care are willing enough to go along with it. The major exception, of course, is Riddle, but I’ve told you all before I’ve long since given up on him. The Granger girl is one of those who understands why it’s important, but doesn’t care for the subject, I think. Of the first-years, Mary Williams and that Max Selwyn you dismissed, Lawrence, they seem to take to it well. The rest are indifferent or are just enjoying getting their hands dirty. What can one expect of eleven-year-olds, though?

 **Dumbledore** : Hmmm… Let’s see. First-years have been working on matches to needles. The Black girl seems to have a talent for transfiguration, or else has had very good tutors. I saw her looking up the Basics in her second class. Robin Quicke, the muggleborn Ravenclaw, is doing quite well, too. The Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs have yet to distinguish themselves. Second and third-years were mostly reviewing inanimate to inanimate and animate to inanimate transformations. I do despair of that Hagrid boy, you know. Charlie Potter and Allison King are the top of their respective classes. Fourth year… I’ll leave them for last, shall I? Fifth-years are starting human transfiguration, working with partners. I’ve had them making superficial changes, hair length and eye color and so on, just to get used to the idea, and they seem to be doing quite well. The NEWT students are working on self-transfiguration. They’re choosing projects this week and next, and they’ll be working on achieving their transformations by the end of the year. Horace, don’t be surprised if you get a few looking for the Animagus potion. I’ve told them they’re welcome to try it, but it’s entirely up to you whether you help them with it or not. I doubt any of them will succeed, at least this year. Most are too flighty to put in the practice, and the rest are too logical to manage the animal mind.

The fourth-years… they have been reviewing animate-animate transformations, in preparation for inanimate to animate. Most of them seem to remember most of what we learned last term, though I despair of Leigh Teague almost as much as Hagrid. No gift whatsoever. Granger and Riddle managed their exercises easily, of course, and Granger was working through them using the basics while she waited for Riddle to catch up. I must say, it’s nice to see someone challenging that boy, even if it is someone who’s as big a troublemaker as he is. At some point after he caught up, while I was distracted by that damn Teague boy, the two of them managed to atomize a pair of geckos, or possibly a large snake, across half the class.

 **Turner** : What were they trying to do?

 **Dumbledore** : Apparently they were trying to transform two geckos into one large snake.

 **Turner** : So it was unstable and exploded. That’s not likely to level the Transfiguration wing, Albus.

 **Dumbledore** : No, it’s not. But the Granger girl then suggested that the _solution_ to the problem was to vanish one gecko, capture the energy from the vanishment in a Humbold’s, and then draw on that energy to create more mass for the second gecko _while_ transforming _that_ into a larger snake.

 **Turner** : Sounds reasonable. Did it work?

 **Dumbledore** : Are you mad? Of course I didn’t let them try it. A fourth-year trying to moderate a Humbold’s? _That’s_ what would have destroyed the wing!

 **Turner** : And yet I seem to recall it takes more than a few minutes to set up the Humbold’s Energy Suspension. One might think that, rather than send the child to detention for her intellectual curiosity, you could have explained the dangers and simply forbidden her to do it.

 **Dumbledore** : Are you trying to tell me how to teach my class, Madam Turner?

 **Turner** : Of course not Albus. What you teach your students or don’t is none of my business, unless, of course, it means that _I’ll_ be administering _your_ detentions. Or if it results in both Granger and Riddle along with half of Slytherin house and all of the Hufflepuffs showing up in my infirmary after they take out the foundations under the Great Hall and collapse half the Castle on themselves. If you don’t tell them _why_ they can’t do a thing, what’s to make you think they’re not just going to do it on their own time?

 **Dumbledore** : … I have all the geckos?

 **Turner** : ‘I have all the geckos,’ he says. Powers, your arrogance is overwhelming. Glad to know you’re thinking things through Albus.

 **Dumbledore** : … I’ll speak to them about it on Tuesday.

 **Turner** : Don’t bother. I already told the girl off over it. She has assured me that if they do any sort of high-energy experiments, they will make sure to use appropriate energy-containment wards, which is, I’m sure, the best you’re going to get. Though while I’m thinking of it, you might warn the NEWT-level Ravens. If word gets out, I’m sure they’ll be trying it as well.

 **Dumbledore** : Very well.

 **Sedgwick** (to Turner): Ten points to Slytherin!

 **Dippet** : Larry! If that’s settled then? … Right, my week has been spent more or less entirely in Edinburgh, in meetings with the board of governors. We’ve relocated due to the increase in Muggle activities in London, you know. Ghastly, really. Nothing new to report, just maintain business as usual. How are your apprentices doing, Horace, Amber?

 **Horace** : Stibbons is doing quite well. It’s difficult to say when his research may make a breakthrough, but he’s slogging away at the cauldrons, working on what he can. And of course he’s giving guest lectures to the youngest students on occasion, just to get some practice teaching. No complaints.

 **Shylock** : Nott’s work on improving the technical application of travelling enchantments is coming along quite well I expect he’ll be done in a year or two. Chelais is stalled on choosing a project. She wants to do something with communications, or possibly attempting to make muggle electrical artifacts work in high-magic environments. She is working with the NEWT students while she makes her decision.

 **Dippet** : Good, good. Glad to hear it. See if you can get Miss Chelais working on a Wizarding telephone. It’s a muggle electrical thing that they use to communicate over long distances instantaneously. Baggins and Black were debating them all week. Seems the minister heard about them from the Muggle PM and passed word along. Sounds damn useful if you ask me.

 **Shylock** : I’ll suggest it, sir.

 **Dippet** : Do that. So, heads of houses, any issues with the first-years?

 **Action** : None here. They’ve really pulled together and are supporting each other, just as I’d expect from any good Badger.

 **Dumbledore** : No disciplinary problems. A few of the muggleborns have come to my office asking about various issues, but nothing egregious.

 **Russell** : A few of the more isolated Ravens have withdrawn from the pack. It’s hard to say yet whether this is normal, or something to worry about. I’m encouraging them to come to different small study groups in an attempt to draw them out.

 **Slughorn** : Well, you know how Slytherins tend to be. They’re all very independent-minded. Haven’t really seen many of the new students making close friends, with the exception of Riddle, Granger, and Black. Those three are together more often than not.

 **Dumbledore** : Leo Black is associating with Tom Riddle? Does he fancy the Granger girl?

 **Slughorn** : No, not Leo, _Bellatrix_ Black, your transfiguration protégé. She’s attached herself to Riddle and Granger. Follows them around at meals and such, and only sits with the other first-year girls when they’re not around, which is surprisingly often. Anyway, it will take time for the little Snakes to form their alliances and come to rely on each other.

 **Dippet** : Madam Turner, do you have anything to add, regarding the first years?

 **Turner** : Keep an eye on Bellatrix Black, Johnathan Masters, and Lucan Parkinson. Carson Avery didn’t look too good either, when I was inspecting the new students, but the Hufflepuffs will be supportive in ways that the Slytherins won’t. Jean Marie Lestrange, too, goes by Jane, in Ravenclaw. No marks, but she’ll flinch away when you try to touch her, and she seems awfully wary of men.

 **Russell** : Damn it, she’s one of my withdrawn ones.

 **Turner** : Set her to work with Black on transfiguration, Albus. It will be good for them both. Same rules as always. Don’t pressure them, let them come to you. Be available, but not threatening, and for the love of Light, Horace, don’t go trying to pat them on the back or touch them in any other way, especially the Lestrange girl. Pass that on to Stibbons, if you’ve got him teaching your first-years. He fucks up, and I’m coming for your head. If they seem to be withdrawing from their peers or displaying other alarming behaviors, talk to McKinnon or myself. If you need a refresher on what’s alarming behavior, it’s John’s turn to remind you, so go talk to him.

 **Dippet** : What about the known troublemakers?

 **Turner** : Well I mentioned the Terrors and the Four Snakes have already taken up their battle again, and were in hospital on Thursday.

 **Dumbledore** : Riddle hasn’t done anything yet this year, at least that I can prove, but I’d like to add Granger to the list. I can only imagine what the two of them are likely to get up to.

 **Slughorn** : See here, Dumbledore, you can’t just add my students to the Trouble List indiscriminately!

 **Dumbledore** : Humbold’s, Horace! And didn’t you say she has experience with polyjuice?

 **Slughorn** : Then I move to add Damocles Smith. Because he looked at me funny in potions on Wednesday.

 **McKinnon** : Now you two are just being petty. Neither of you is authorized to add students to the Trouble List at all. There’s a reason Heads of House aren’t in charge of it. I’ll sus out Granger at our meeting tomorrow, if it will make you happy Albus, but I won’t treat her unfairly just because she’s friends with Tom Riddle. We all know you have a vendetta against the boy, and nobody understands why.

 **Dumbledore** : You know exactly why, John.

 **McKinnon** : He’s fourteen. You’re embarrassing yourself. Besides, you can’t hate the Slytherin students for living up to the virtues and faults of their house. Unless you’d like the rest of us to start discriminating against your lions for being too impetuous, and the ravens for their arrogance, and the puffs for being utter pushovers? I thought not. Riddle is still on the list for that stunt with the library and the thing with Leigh Teague and that spider, not because he’s ‘an amoral, manipulative, conniving little snake’ as you put it at the last meeting, and out to fool us all about his true nature.

 **Lyntz** : Thank you, John.

 **McKinnon** : So, from the top, Pope, Weasley, and Yaxley are up to their old tricks already. Any sign that Morgana Yaxley is planning to take her brother to task for me again? Pity. It’s always nice when the students do my work for me. We don’t have any troublemakers listed in sixth year. Fifth-year, all the Slytherin boys have been getting in fights with the seventh-year Gryffindors? How bad were the hexes, Madam Turner?

 **Turner** : Nothing worse than Lawrence teaches his third-years. They were careful. They know it’s more than their lives are worth to get caught throwing dark magic around the corridors.

 **McKinnon** : I’ll have a word with them, but I expect they’ll outgrow it by the end of the year. Slytherins tend to, you know, around their fifth year. OWLs bring the world outside of Hogwarts into sharper focus. Speaking of which, Dot Parsons and Gus Travers tried to sabotage the other fifth-years’ potions exams last term. Keep a close eye on them as we get into OWL season. Fourth-year Slytherins are getting along better than ever, from what I’ve heard.

 **Dumbledore** : Where do you get your information, John?

 **McKinnon** : I listen to the students, Albus. It’s not really that difficult. Riddle’s not done anything this week, so his probation is still going well. If he’s not done anything by the end of term, I move we remove him from the list. After all, it’s not likely he’ll try the same thing again.

 **Lyntz** : He’d best not.

 **McKinnon** : And before you say it, Kat, no one’s actually _caught_ him at anything else. No major troublemakers in fourth year, then, if Black, Lestrange, and Malfoy are leaving Riddle alone. Third year, we had Nick Trent and all the Gryffindor boys on the list for that dust-up in the Great Hall. And Marcy Shacklebolt, of all people, went and smacked Cherie Rowle at the beginning of last term because Shacklebolt and Teddy Potter are promised, but Rowle and Potter have been dating on and off for a year, and Rowle wouldn’t acknowledge that Shacklebolt had any sort of rights over Potter. I think Shacklebolt and Potter reached an arrangement, but keep an eye on her anyway. If she keeps her hands and her wand to herself this term, we can probably take her off the list. Second years Marion Abbott and Katie Aspic were at each other’s throats all last year. Not sure where that one started. If I’m any judge, they’ll be back at it in a couple weeks. Shouldn’t turn into anything too awful unless Abbott gets Eddy Lestrange involved, in which case it would go underground within Slytherin, and you’d have to deal with it, Horace.

 **Slughorn** : I don’t think it will come to that. Miss Abbott’s not really the type to think to use her connections that way. But if it does, I’ll take them aside.

 **McKinnon** : No troublemakers among the first-years, yet, though I’m sure we’ll have a few sooner or later. Anyone else got anything to add on the Trouble list? …Okay, that’s it, then.

 **Dippet** : And on that cheerful note, any other new business?

 **Sedgwick** : I’ve got something. The ministry’s asked me to spend next summer making a tour of the continent, assessing the Muggle war if it’s still going on, or the damage done, if it’s over by then. So I’ll be resigning my post. I’ll put in the official letters and whatnot when it’s time, but I thought I’d give you a heads-up in case you want to do a full Search.

 **Dippet** : I can’t say I’m surprised. You always were the best when it came to blending in with the Muggles.

 **Sedgwick** : Comes of having been raised by them. Anyway, I’d recommend Lewis Merrythought for my position. He’s a decent chap, ex-Auror, knows his stuff. He’d get on well enough with you lot, and I think he’d be willing to take over just the rest of my contract, if you don’t want to bring him on for the full five-year term.

 **Dippet** : Send him an owl, tell him to send me his CV. I’ll be posting it in the Prophet and sending round to the DMLE to see if anyone else is interested, mind, but I’ll take your recommendation into account. Any other new business?

 **Dumbledore** : Regarding the Granger girl, I’ve made inquiries with the American Magical Citizens’ Registry, and they have no record of her, or of any magical Grangers.

 **Slughorn** : Leaving aside for a moment _why_ you were making such inquiries in the first place, she mentioned she was home-schooled, and she hadn’t taken her Qualifications yet, so there’s no real reason they would have her registered. You know they’re not as strict about registration as the more civilized nations. And if you recall, her parents were separated. No idea what her mother’s name was, but I doubt it would have been Granger.

 **Dumbledore** : I simply wanted to make sure there was nothing we needed to do as far as getting her magical citizenship shifted. I submitted the paperwork on our end, but if the Americans had already had her registered…

 **Dippet** : But they hadn’t? All’s well, then. Any more new business?

 **Flitwick** : Dueling club’s first meeting is this Sunday. Headmaster, you volunteered to referee, did you not?

 **Dippet** : Who else, my boy?

 **Flitwick** : Ambrosia, my dear, you are still willing to commentate?

 **Shylock** : Of course, Filius. And before you ask, yes, I’ll check the wards after dinner and again before you start, including the time dilatation enchantments. Wouldn’t do for the students to blink and miss the action.

 **Flitwick** : Too true. Thank you, Ambrosia. Lilith, John, you two are staging the opening match, yes?

 **McKinnon** : Yes, International Dueling Commission standards, I should think.

 **Leicaster** : Go easy on me, please. It’s been years since I’ve dueled.

 **McKinnon** : Anything for a lady, Miss Leicaster.

 **Leicaster** : Call me Lilith, I insist.

 **McKinnon** : Then I’m John.

 **Flitwick** : [clears throat] Then Lawrence, you’re fighting me.

 **Sedgwick** : Belgian rules, if you’re up for it.

 **Flitwick** : Oh, yes. It’s been far too long since I’ve had a good brawl. And then Madam Turner, you’re taking on the winner?

 **Turner** : You sound surprised, Filius.

 **Flitwick** : I simply didn’t realize you had much experience in the dueling pit. We haven’t seen you for several years, I believe?

 **Turner** : Well, I did specify Bombay rules. I might not be much of a duelist, but I have had more than my fair share of down and dirty urban warfare.

 **Dumbledore** : Don’t remind me…

 **Sedgwick** : Careful, tiger, your claws are showing.

 **Flitwick** : … Yes. Well, that should give the students a good idea of the range of magical fighting they’re likely to encounter in their lives, though of course they’ll only be using the IDC rules in the club.

 **Turner** : Boring.

 **Sedgwick** : You sound like Riddle.

 **Turner** : Perish the thought.

 **Dippet** : Anything else? Anyone? No? Alright, then. Next staff meeting will be the same time next week. Have a good weekend, and I’ll see you all at the Dueling Club Exhibition.

**[End Transcript 18:02]**


	47. A Trial by Blood and Pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: this is the chapter where Tom actually removes Bellatrix's scars. It's graphic, from all three points of view (Tom, Bellatrix, Hermione). There's blood, pain, sadistic joy, a bit of mental trauma for Hermione, and the firm foundation of a very unhealthy friendship... such as it is.

6 September 1940

Tom’s setup for Bellatrix’s… surgery, Hermione finally decided to call it, was surprisingly clinical. He transfigured the desk to a steel table, with gutters down the sides to stop blood from dripping on the floor, and the small side-table from the sitting corner to serve as an instrument tray. He cast several strong lighting charms to hover above and around the table, then retrieved his knives and other supplies from his room.

The instruments were sheathed in a tight roll of leather, which Tom unbound and unrolled to display at least ten different blades, as well as several forceps and a tiny saw. She couldn’t help but wonder where he’d gotten all that. He selected three of the blades, setting the remainder aside: a scalpel, like the one he had used on Hermione; a short, but wickedly curved knife; and what Hermione thought was a straight-razor, for shaving. These he laid out on a white cloth on the instrument tray, along with one of the forceps, several straight pins, two vials of Blood-Replenishing Potion and one Pepper-Up, and a stack of cotton gauze. Hermione shivered, but said nothing, and sterilized the table, instruments, and Tom’s hands with the _expurgate_ spell Madam Turner had taught her. They agreed that Tom would signal Hermione to heal Bellatrix at intervals, and that otherwise, she could watch, but she would not interfere in any way.

Bellatrix arrived at ten minutes past four, somewhat out of breath, having obviously run from her last class back to Slytherin. Hermione let her in, an air of ceremony falling over the assembled threesome.

They stood just inside the door, Tom and Bellatrix once again apparently entranced with each other, Hermione looking back and forth between them and wondering if she should say something. Tom spoke first, quietly, but with his power ringing in his words, “Tell me what you want.”

Bellatrix was quiet for a moment, then, “I want… freedom.”

Tom smiled. Hermione thought the expression might be the single most predatory thing she had ever seen. “Strip,” he said, and the younger witch disrobed without a word, letting her clothing fall into a puddle around herself.

Tom motioned to the table, and Bellatrix climbed up, lying on her stomach, still silent. Every line of her body was tense, Tom saw, with anticipation of the pain to come. He ghosted over to her and ran his fingers lightly over her back, counting the scars. She shivered at his touch. There were at least fifty stripes on her back alone, layered atop each other at different angles, variously healed. They continued over her buttocks and down the back of her thighs. Tom moved one of her legs away from the other, and found that her torturer had, at least, not seen fit to strike the soft inner parts of her thighs. He put the leg back.

To entirely remove the scar tissue, he would have to remove nearly all of the skin from the dorsal surface of the body, from knees to neck. He had planned, originally, to strip each stripe in turn, undercutting the edges with the razor and using the curved blade to slice along its length, pulling with the forceps. Seeing the degree to which the scars overlapped on the back, however, he thought that they might not heal properly if he were to use that approach. No… instead, he would have to peel back the scars as a single and complete layer. The girl was painfully thin, and it would be difficult to remove the skin without digging into the muscles or fascia in the lower back, which Hermione had warned him would be beyond her healing skills. He grinned at the challenge.

He ordered Hermione to sterilize the girl’s back, and placed the first cut, swift and deep, to the left of the spine, avoiding its bumps, but giving him a good idea of how deep the scaring would be at its deepest point, and how much material he had to work with before he would reach muscle. Hermione squeaked, and Tom glared at her. She would be silent, or he would _make_ her be silent. The girl stiffened and gasped as she realized the pain, blood leaking from the cut as he pulled it apart and probed the wound with fingers and magic. The scars were deep, reaching almost to the subcutaneous fat (what little there was of it) and muscle, especially over the upper back.

Exploration accomplished, Tom sectioned the left side of the girl’s back roughly into fifths, cutting only through the layer of scar tissue, and peeled back the corner of the first section, slicing delicately along the line between the scar tissue and normal flesh with the scalpel, parallel to the underlying muscle, careful not to cut into it. The girl’s arms and legs twitched with the pain, and she let out a whimper. She seemed to understand instinctively, however, that she should stay as still as possible, especially where he was cutting, and did not try to move away. He watched her magic expand from her core, insulating her nerves and dulling the pain instinctively. It was interesting, the things magic could do without conscious direction, Tom thought distantly. He had never done this to a witch before. A muggle would likely have passed out by now. Tears leaked down her face, anyway, the sensation of being skinned alive overwhelming the efforts of her magic.

About ten minutes later, Tom reached the end of the first section of scars, at the edge of the girl’s left shoulder, and cut the patch free. He looked up to see that Hermione had moved away, probably when he had glared at her for squeaking, and was purposefully not looking at the consensual torture scene taking place at the other side of her bedroom. He snapped at Hermione’s hand through their connection and set the skin aside to vanish when his hands were clean. Hermione looked up, paler than Bellatrix at the sight of Tom licking blood from his hands, but came to heal the girl, regardless of her obvious disgust. At the moment, Tom couldn’t care less what Hermione thought of his habits. Bellatrix, he thought, tasted sweet, and tonight, her blood was _his_.

New skin, fresh and unblemished, grew from the girl’s shoulder toward the center of her back under the point of Hermione’s wand. The pain must have vanished with the healing, as the girl, whose arms and legs had been fairly trembling with it, had suddenly relaxed. That wouldn’t do at all, Tom thought. Hermione sterilized his hands again, and he returned to peel back the second section, focusing entirely on the movements of his knife and the half-suppressed reactions as the girl’s skin parted at his will...

…

Hermione had meant to watch. She had thought that if Bella ( _Bellatrix!_ ) could bear the pain of going under Tom’s knife, with no anesthetic, and completely conscious, she could, at the very least, bear witness on the girl’s behalf. She failed. She could not stop the squeak of horror that escaped her as Tom made his first cut into Bellatrix’s back, as she saw the first drops of blood well to the surface, as Bellatrix gasped and her entire body stiffened against the insult, and against the instinct to flee.

Tom had glared at her, and she had never before feared him as she did at that moment. She imagined she could see a lust for pain in his eyes, and hatred of her interrupting his ritual with the sound of weakness. He looked away almost at once, entirely focused on the target of his vivisection, but she retreated, telling herself that it would do no one any good if Tom were to kick her out of the process, or, even worse, if she were to vomit from the sight of Bellatrix’s pain.

She sat on her bed, back against the headboard, arms wrapped around her knees, staring purposefully at the drape of the curtains, and not the soft sounds Bellatrix emitted under Tom’s knife, or the bright lights, making the blood look like something unreal, or the hot, metallic smell which was rising to fill the air.

The first time that Tom brought her over to heal the girl was the worst, for shock. The sight of slick red flesh and trails of blood, surrounded by unmarked skin on one side and hideous scars on the other was almost more than Hermione could bear. She swallowed hard, and muttered the Wound Sealing Spell, visualizing fresh skin growing out of the healthy, intact flesh to merge with the scarred tissue on the other side of the wound. She sterilized everything, including Tom’s hands, which she had seen him _licking_ , the bloody vampire, and returned to her seat, burying her head in her knees and hyperventilating slightly.

Every ten minutes for the next hour and a half, Tom snapped her wrist, drawing her back to heal the girl as he stripped the scars from her back. The second time he was smiling. The fifth time, he propped Bellatrix up after she was healed and poured a Blood Replenishing Potion into her before allowing her to flop bonelessly back to the table. By the seventh time, the child had passed out entirely from the pain. Tom revived her with a particularly sadistic glint in his eye. Each time Hermione looked up, Tom looked more energized. The tenth time he grinned happily at her before turning to work on the long, narrow strip of scars that still covered the girl’s spine. Hermione thought that Bellatrix might have passed out again, but Tom didn’t seem to care, or perhaps he only wanted to be sure she wouldn’t twitch during this particular part of the operation.

Just after six, Hermione healed the long strip of naked flesh running down the center of Bellatrix’s back. Tom vanished the scraps of scarred skin before reviving the girl again and pouring the remaining potions into her. This proved to be enough to get her moving, at least enough to dress and drag herself to dinner under her own power.

…

Bellatrix had rushed to Hermione’s room after class, overwhelmingly excited to finally have her scars removed. She had known that there was a reason that most people never did have old scars removed, if for some reason they could not have them healed long enough for the scars to form in the first place. But she had thought they were weak. She had thought she could handle the pain. She had survived the initial punishments, after all.

She had never been so wrong.

The first cut was a sharp pain, almost cold, and then it began to _burn_ as Tom poked at it. That was manageable. But then, as he began to peel back the first section – agony, like nothing she had ever felt before. It was worse than whipping or caning. It was worse than the time her cousin Deneb had burned her with a cigarette. It was steady and unending, and as it continued and spread across her shoulder, a second pain followed, throbbing and aching. And over it all, the one overriding thought: _I must not move_. Her world shrank until there was nothing but the pain, and the pain was eternal.

Suddenly, it stopped. She came back to herself to find that her face was wet with tears, and she was cold and uncomfortable lying naked on the metal table, yet _more_ comfortable than she had ever been in her life, because she _didn’t hurt_ , her mind positively blank with the euphoria of _not hurting_.

And then the pain returned, twice as bad for the reprieve, and her world once again became nothing more than pain. She lived and died in eternal suffering, irregular breaks in the torture keeping its power fresh, knowing that she was doomed always to return to pain, but longing for it to cease, if only for a moment. It was worse than the time her cousin Lyra had practiced the Cruciatus on her at Solstice, or when Gemma spilled the frying oil on her. At least the Cruciatus had only lasted a few minutes, and Uncle had allowed Mother to heal the burns from the oil – that _had_ been an accident.

Her mind revolted, escaping the present entirely, thinking of the few happy memories she had, then of the sad ones, then the painful. She blacked out, only to be revived by a sharp order, which she had to obey, could not help but obey. The voice was the voice of pain, and pain ruled her world.

Eventually she passed out again, after how long she couldn’t have said, and was awakened by the same voice, the pain gone. Hermione was holding her upright, and Bellatrix snuggled against the warmth of her body. Tom gave her a potion, then another. The older students helped her dress and brought her to dinner, fielding the questions from her cousin and the other students, saying that she had exhausted herself with too-advanced transfiguration. It took her until dessert to ask, but finally she made herself do it – she had to know.

“How did it go?”

Tom gave her an absolutely indecipherable look. “The worst is done. Perhaps another hour for the first part.”

Bellatrix did not know whether to laugh or cry. She had hoped against hope that it was done, entirely, but she had half expected to hear that they were less than halfway through. “Before we continue,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper, “I want to see.” Tom nodded, and Bellatrix leaned against Hermione and closed her eyes, exhausted from the constant tension and repeated healings.

…

After Tom and Hermione had finished eating, they brought the nearly-sleeping Bellatrix back to Hermione’s room. Tom cleaned up his makeshift surgery and instruments and fetched more potions, while Hermione took Bellatrix to her bathroom to see her back. The reflection of her skin, smooth and fully healed, seemed to revive the girl far more than the food had done, and she returned to the bedroom resolved to finish the process, regardless of the pain.

The girls entered the room again, and Hermione had a strong sense of _déjà vu_ , as Tom asked again “Tell me what you want.”

Bellatrix’s voice was steady as she said, “I want it to be _done_.”

Tom’s smile this time, Hermione thought, was not as predatory, but instead almost… proud. He nodded, and the girl stripped again, climbing back onto the table and lying down without any further prompting.

…

Tom was _impressed_. He had not expected that the girl would want to continue, not after seeing her at dinner, so utterly exhausted from his ministrations. She was clearly terrified, but utterly determined to see the project through. He had obviously underestimated the degree to which she wanted the end result.

In any case, he had been honest in his estimation that the remainder of the stripes could be removed in an hour or so. They covered almost the same amount of skin as those on her back, but they were much fewer and further between, as though her buttocks had not been so easy to scar as the skin directly over bone, or, perhaps more likely, as though her punisher had been predisposed to strike her shoulders and upper back. He probably made her stand, Tom thought. What this meant was that the remaining twenty or so stripes were spaced out enough, and located on better-fleshed areas of the body, so that his original plan for their removal would likely suffice.

With no further ceremony, he began to do so. The girl twitched slightly more as he worked his way down her thighs, the skin being thinner and more sensitive there than on her back, but she still did not pull away or beg him to stop. The blood ran freely, as he made long, shallow cuts along the length of the scars, finding their edges and paring them away. He called Hermione over only twice, and in forty minutes, it was done. A final Blood Replenishing Potion, and the girls returned to the bathroom, to let Bellatrix see for herself that the scars were gone.

They returned after some time, enough that he was able to clean up, vanish the scar tissue and cooling blood. As they entered the room, he spoke. “We’re not done, yet, you know.”

“I know. I still want to see whatever you’ve dreamed up for my design.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Bellatrix looked at him questioningly. “Hold out your arms.”

The light of comprehension dawned, in both Bellatrix’s and Hermione’s eyes.

“Are you sure, Tom? Wrists are a lot more complicated to heal than the back, if you nick something you shouldn’t,” Hermione objected.

Bellatrix overrode her. “No. He’s right. It’s not done until it’s _done_. Do it.” She climbed back up onto the table, wearing her pants and one of Hermione’s muggle shirts, sitting up this time, and holding out her arms for inspection.

These scars were concentrated in a single thick band, about an inch wide, running down the center of the inside of each arm, from her wrists almost to her elbows. Tom looked at them closely before deciding that it would be for the best if he stopped the blood-flow to the skin for this part. As much as he would like to see the girl bleed, it would be nearly impossible to excise the scars without cutting something important if he couldn’t see what he was doing.

“This,” he warned her, “Is going to be cold. Don’t move.” He flooded her left arm with his magic, willing her blood away from the surface. As it reached a pallor normally associated with the dead, he made a shallow cut along the edge of the band of scar tissue, finding the limits of its depth. It was much deeper than any of the others. Surely on more than one occasion the girl must have hit something important, her own magic stopping her from bleeding out on instinct alone. He moved across her arm with long, precise strokes of the razor blade, not a single drop of blood falling from the wound.

Bellatrix watched, fascinated, as Tom opened her arm to show long, lean muscles and delicately pulsing veins. She wondered if he had made it stop hurting because these were the scars she had made herself, or if that had not been intentional. She wondered _how_ he had done it, for that matter, but she wasn’t about to distract him by asking. She sat as still as she possibly could, and waited for it to be done. Only a few minutes had passed when Tom recalled Hermione from her retreat on the other side of the room.

“Jesus _Christ_ , Tom, I can’t heal that. That’s way more than just the skin, like on her back. And what the hell are you doing? Why isn’t she bleeding out?”

Tom ignored the questions. “Fine. Hand me my wand, then.” Hermione did so. Tom had overheard the Wound Sealing Spell a dozen times, at least. “ _Confervetur._ ” He did not know the intricate details of the capillary system or the various layers of sub-skin tissue he may have removed any better than Hermione did, but he had a great deal more faith in the ability of magic to do what he wanted it to do, and correctly, simply because he wanted it to do so. He released his hold on Bellatrix’s circulation, and her healed arm found its usual skin tone, no worse for the wear.

Tom yawned. Keeping the blood away from the skin without stopping its flow entirely, while dissecting and then healing simultaneously was mentally exhausting. He noted that Bellatrix had watched throughout the process, and thought that either he had been controlling the pain, too, unintentionally, or she must have managed to kill all the nerves in the area with her cutting.

He moved to Bellatrix’s other side, ignoring Hermione’s questioning looks, and repeated the operation, then vanished the bloodless scraps of scar tissue, and checked the time. It was nearly ten. “Do you want to keep going?” he asked the girl, who was watching him with something like awe.

She nodded, and stripped off Hermione’s shirt, lying face-down on the table for the third time. Tom laughed, delighted at her eagerness, even now. “A moment, Păn.” Both Hermione and Bellatrix looked up. Bellatrix, he supposed, had never heard him laugh. Hermione, at a guess, was wondering what Bellatrix’s nickname meant. Tom rifled through Hermione’s bag and stole her notebook, in which he had sketched the preliminary design for Bellatrix’s back.

Sure enough, “Did you just call Bellatrix by a _pet name_?”

He hadn’t meant to. It had just slipped out as he was so pleased with the girl and the night’s work. “Yes. What of it?”

“What does it mean?” asked Bellatrix.

“It’s Etruscan. Păn, from Alpanu. She was a goddess of the underworld, associated with rebirth, dark pleasures, revenge, victory or triumph out of suffering. That sort of thing. You’ll grow into it.” Bellatrix looked pleased.

“Do I have a nickname, too?” Hermione asked.

“Cia, from Nyrcia. Also Etruscan. Goddess of fate and chance, who changes the inevitable and re-writes the past and the future.” His face was carefully blank.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “You never fail to surprise me, Tom. Do you have an Etruscan name for yourself?”

“No, my name’s short enough already.”

“Hmmm… My Etruscan mythology’s a bit sparse, but if you’d like one, I think the Greek ‘Ibris might suit.”

Tom snorted, “I suppose I should be offended by that, but it is true, in the Greek sense, of course.”

“Of course, only in the Greek sense.”

The girl was looking back and forth between Tom and Hermione, clearly not having understood why Hermione’s suggestion was funny or insulting. Tom was not about to explain it, and apparently neither was Hermione.

“Shut up, Cia. Păn, lie back down.” Now that they knew of them, there was no reason not to use the nicknames, he reasoned, and four extra syllables arguing that he should. They both did as ordered, and Tom started tracing out the major lines of the design.

Bellatrix relaxed into the table with a sigh, still high on the completion of the scar-removal process. After the earlier pain, the thin, relatively shallow cuts that defined Tom’s artwork were nothing, even on new skin. They _hurt_ , but not as though the world was made entirely of pain and nothing else. And Tom thought highly enough of her to give her a nickname. She didn’t think she could possibly _be_ any happier.

Tom was rather put-out by Bellatrix’s lack of response to the renewed pain of his cutting, but he supposed that she needed time to re-adjust to a lack of pain before it would make as much of an impact. To be honest, he had more than fulfilled his bloodlust for the night as well, and, so sated, would not have taken as much pleasure in the process as usual anyway, even if she had been twitching and moaning under his knife. Instead of taking his time and savoring the girl’s reactions, therefore, he simply worked efficiently, ready to be done for the night. He carved the last rune on the sword a bare hour after he started, and took her to the bathroom to see it for herself.

Her reaction was all he could have hoped for. She _cried_. He explained the symbolism behind the design, and she threw herself into his arms. He sent a begging look over her shoulder at Hermione, who was watching the spectacle with a strange little grin on her face, and after a moment, the older girl detached the younger from him. He half-healed her back, just as he had done with Hermione’s so that she wouldn’t bleed all over everything or muss the lines by continually breaking open the scabs for the next few days, and then followed the girls back to Hermione’s room.

Tom dismantled his impromptu surgery and bid the girls goodnight, supposing that the younger girl would head to her room as well soon.

After he had gone, however, Bellatrix asked if she could stay with Hermione, and the older girl didn’t have the heart to tell her no. They settled in to sleep, and Hermione dimmed the lamps and flicked the curtains closed. She petted the younger girl’s hair, and tried to pretend that she didn’t notice Bellatrix’s renewed tears as the younger girl drifted slowly toward sleep. She would, she thought, go to the Hufflepuff party. She had forgotten to tell Cherie at dinner, but she desperately needed a night that was not full of dark and blood-soaked drama. She would tell the Hufflepuff girl tomorrow that she would be there. That was her last thought as she drifted off to sleep.

Tom slept better than he had since arriving at Hogwarts. His last thoughts were of the morning’s expedition to the Chamber of Secrets. He had been worried that he would be too excited to sleep, but the intense work of removing Păn’s scars had more than taken care of that eventuality.

Bellatrix was entirely overwhelmed by the sudden loss of her scars, and the new art in their place; by Tom’s apparent regard, and his nickname for her; by the pain, and its sudden absence. Her relief when Hermione said she could stay, without asking questions, only added to her tears, and the way the older girl was petting her head, she couldn’t help but think of Cassie, who had held her like this on so many summer nights, and cried with her over the unjustness of the universe. If she had known the word _cathartic_ , she might have felt that it applied, but as it was, she simply fell asleep thinking that she must have done something good, in her life, to deserve friends like these.


	48. Part 3: Remedial Divination

7 September 1940

Miss Hermione Granger arrived in his classroom quite punctually, at eight. John McKinnon had not quite finished his morning tea, and offered her a cup, which she accepted but did not drink.

 _Perhaps she is nervous_ , he thought. She seemed the sort of student who set great store by her academic successes and failures. He had seen how frustrated she had been when she had been unable to achieve anything in class on Monday.

 _If that is the case_ , he thought, “Well, then, we’d best get started, I suppose. Do you have any previous experience with Divination?”

The girl frowned, “Not anything like you teach, sir. My um… former tutor in the subject was supposedly a seer, but mostly, well, I think she was a great old fake. We didn’t do anything but try to read the future. I quit while we were still on tea leaves.” She was blushing. Definitely didn’t like to fail, this one.

He grinned. “No, no, you were quite right to leave off. I can’t think who would have thought a Seer would make a good teacher of divination. No one can See unless they have that gift, and most Seers, in my experience, are high as a kite most of the time, to keep visions of potential futures from overwhelming their sanity, or what’s left of it anyway. Acting as a conduit for the Great Symphony is murder on the nervous system.”

“What? There’s actually a Great Symphony? I thought that was made up.”

“Oh, no, that’s quite real, and beyond the access of most of us mortals. Seers can see when it is going to reach a confluence or a crescendo, but only when the events have progressed so far that there is no turning back, and there’s no avoiding them in any possible way. Those are true prophecies.” The girl looked lost and angry at the idea of the inevitable. “Think of it like a check-mate notice, perhaps. There are still any number of ways in which the final event might fall out, come to pass, but the pieces mentioned in a true prophesy _will_ eventually meet, as foretold, or the end will come, or what have you. There is no way, at the Point of Prophesy, to avoid it. One can only determine the manner in which one meets the challenge.”

“So…” the girl said slowly, “If it was prophesied that a baby would be the downfall of a dark lord, and the dark lord tried to kill him over and over, and failed, it’s _not_ just self-fulfilling, that the child would grow up fighting the dark and eventually overcome it?”

John smiled. He loved this story. It was one of the great cycles of History, played out over and over with different actors. “No. Had the Dark Lord Malchion of Greece, in the late 1500s, stolen away his son, the boy Chrysmal, who later became Lord Tyranous, and raised him as his apprentice, rather than trying to kill him as an infant, so that his mother, the Light Lady Chryseis, spirited the child away and died in his place, Chrysmal would likely have overthrown his father and usurped his power, rather than defeating him to avenge his mother, and winning his forces through combat. If Malchion had left the boy alone entirely, perhaps the child would have been raised as a force for light, but he still would have triumphed over Malchion in the end. But the Greeks do have a long history of preferring the ‘self-fulfilling’ route, and one of the major personality flaws of the Dark Lords throughout history is an inability to accept inevitabilities.

“Rather more sophisticated attempts to circumvent prophecies have been made, depending on their wording, mostly, trying to find a way for it to come true without the outcome one fears will pass, but the specific wording is only the interpretation of the Seer. The Great Symphony does not show them the future in terms we would recognize. The outcome one fears is generally the only thing to which the message refers.

“On the other hand, while one likely cannot make a prophesy refer to, say, the Dark Lord losing a single, non-critical battle, and thus being ‘defeated,’ it is possible that what one fears, such as dying at the hands of one’s own son, is not the ‘downfall’ to which the prophesy refers – it could simply mean that the Dark Lord would lose his power or influence. It may not even mean a permanent defeat. Most of the time, prophesy means, or should mean, nothing to those directly involved. They do not _cause_ events to occur, you see, but simply assure us that they _will_ , if you see what I mean. So the best use of a prophecy like the one you mentioned is often to spread them around, and use them to give hope to the subjugated masses and so on: This time will end, you know?

“The only thing the Named should do, that’s the ones who are referred to directly in the prophecy, is whatever they would normally have done. After all, the end was always to come. To have a Seer say that it is coming is no different than knowing it yourself, from the lessons of history, or simply because one cannot live forever. Even Baba Yaga died in the end.”

The girl still looked troubled, or distracted, perhaps. With a deep sigh and a heavy heart, John decided not to pry. His years as a mind-healer were behind him, now. He had learned his lesson about taking all the troubles of the world on his own shoulders. Atlas he was not. “Sorry, pet topic. That’s not the sort of divining we do here at Hogwarts, anyway. Has your friend Mr. Riddle told you why we started with scrying the past last year?”

“No, sir.”

“Scrying the present is actually easier, in a lot of ways,” John said with a smile, “but the Headmaster in his infinite wisdom has declared that third-years are not responsible enough to have access to information on events occurring in the here and now, even though most important events occur behind anti-scrying wards, anyway. I have managed to convince him that it is absolutely necessary for _fourth_ -years to know, before we begin attempting to scry the future in fifth-year, which is quite unlike trying to See with no gift, I promise you. So, much of the third-year curriculum consists of meditation and trying to use one’s magic outside of one’s body, and then the major project is scrying out how your parents met, which most students seem to find amusing enough. Do you know what I’m talking about, when I say using one’s magic outside of one’s body?”

Hermione nodded hesitantly. “I… Maybe. Tom keyed me into a ward for my bedroom the other night. Is it like that?”

“What kind of key?”

“A magical primacy invitation clause override of a blood ward.”

John was impressed. Blood-based wards were easy enough to set up, but could have terrible consequences if they went wrong. Magical primacy keys, on the other hand, were devilishly tricky to set up, requiring three different centers of concentration as well as technical finesse in carving and setting the runes. “And it _worked_?”

“I think so. I haven’t tried to… that is I don’t have any family here, so I don’t know that I can disinvite anyone who shares my blood, but it seems to have worked in setting the default of the blood wards to ah…” she trailed off for a moment. “Sorry. The Primacy _has_ made it so I specifically have to invite new people in. Which is what Tom said it should do.”

“Erm, I think that explanation’s a bit off.” John wasn’t an expert on wards, but he did know that there was a reason only the oldest families used blood wards on their properties. He couldn’t think what Tom had been thinking putting one in the Slytherin dorms. “The blood ward would keep _out_ anyone who doesn’t share your blood. You’d need the invitation-magical primacy override to let anyone who’s not your blood _into_ the room.”

“Ah, I suppose that makes sense. And yes, in that case, it works.”

“Why was Mr. Riddle carving your wards? I was under the impression that Slytherin students had to ward _themselves_ after third year.”

Hermione grinned. “There’s nothing about that in the rules. Just that the dorms aren’t warded by the school after third year. I suppose most people probably do their own, because they don’t trust anyone else, or no one else is willing and able to do it, but well… Tom and I have… an agreement. And his wards make mine look like a child’s scribbles. So…”

“I see…” Personally, John thought that the girl must be a bit slow, if she was leaving the security of her room up to Tom Riddle, or giving him blood to use in the wards. Despite what he said to Dumbledore at the staff meeting, he knew there was something slightly off about that boy. He had seen it before, working as a healer. But he supposed that she was safe enough if she really was behind a blood-keyed ward. All she would need to do was disinvite Tom, if she ever needed to, and the wards would not need to be re-powered for a year and a day, which was plenty of time for her to learn to do it herself.

“Right,” he continued. “Letting go of that topic for a moment, I suppose Mr. Riddle talked you through putting your magic in contact with a rune or something as a focus, and maintaining that connection while he activated the wards around you?” Hermione nodded. “For scrying, you’re going to do sort of the same thing, but instead of focusing on maintaining a connection between yourself and the ward rune, you will be focusing on pooling your magic into the mirror, which is going to serve as your focus, and will help you direct your mind and your magic to the events you want to see. The first step, though, is meditating, and allowing your magic to come away from your core and be directed out of your body. Let’s try that, and see where you are, to start with.” John let his magic flow outward to encompass the girl.

“Okay…”

“So, make yourself comfortable and close your eyes. Do you know how to find your core?” The girl nodded, and her core glowed slightly brighter to John’s magic. It was, he thought, perhaps the most tightly controlled and well-ordered magic he had ever seen in a fourteen-year-old witch, but the very level of control she was maintaining was likely inhibiting her ability to free her magic beyond the confines of her body. He was quite surprised, actually, that she had managed to link to the ward-key. _Must have been the blood_ , he thought.

“All right.” He spoke softly. “Your magic is very controlled. You keep it close to the core. I would normally ask you to relax, and let it drift away, toward your skin,” he watched as the girl’s magic instinctively pulled in closer to herself, “but I don’t think that will work for you. Try casting a light charm for me, Hermione.”

The girl fumbled her wand out of her pocket, a difficult proposition with her feet curled up in one of the armchairs that faced his desk. “ _Lumos_.”

A single strand of magic, a slice of power sufficient for the spell, and not a bit more, separated itself from the mass of the girl’s core, travelling down her arm and into her wand. She hardly needed the focus, her own control was so precise. He doubted that his was so neat. That kind of control usually spoke of very young, very strong accidental magic, in a non-magical environment: muggleborns with strong magic learned how to keep it under wraps, or else, he thought, went the other way, as Tom clearly had, and used their magic so freely as children that they were often locked away or worse before they reached school-age. “Can you do anything wandlessly?”

She set her wand in her lap. “ _Tempus_.” She snapped her fingers, a trick John had seen Tom do, the sudden movement an impetus for the spark of magic to break away from the body and realize the spell. Again, only the magic needed for the spell was released.

“Okay, do that again, but keep contact with your core and try to maintain an awareness of what your magic is actually _doing_ when you cast the time charm.” This was trickier, as it involved maintaining two fronts of concentration, but he was certain she could do it. No one maintained that tight a control of their power if they weren’t subconsciously aware of its movements at all times.

The girl tried it several times, before sighing and opening her eyes. “Professor, this isn’t working.”

“We _have_ only just started,” he pointed out. “You can’t expect immediate results.”

“No,” she shook her head, “It’s not that. It’s well… what do you know about Occlumency?”

“Quite a lot. I teach a NEWT course on the subject.” John was rather taken aback. This was an entirely unexpected turn. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, the girls said you had been a mind-healer, so I thought… _damn_ it. I can’t actually tell you the problem. It’s just a… distraction. That I would like to put out of my mind. Temporarily. And I’m fairly sure that Occlumency is the way to do that, but I’m not sure how to go about it.”

“I suppose I could take a look if you wanted.” It had been years since John had practiced Therapeutic Legilimency, but he was still licensed, and he couldn’t imagine that the girl’s distraction was a difficult problem to solve. “Developing your own occluding shields and the mental discipline to control intrusive or distracting thoughts can take years, but a legilimens can set up temporary blocks for you…”

The girl blanched. “No, no, you couldn’t. That’s quite alright. I’ll just… keep going. Never mind. Shall we continue?”

John was suddenly much more concerned. “Hermione, if it’s something that’s got you this flustered, well. I was a Healer. I took the oaths. They’re lifelong and binding: nonmalfeasance, beneficence, confidentiality. If you let me look into your mind, it would go no further than the two of us.”

Hermione gave him a sad, wary smile. “I’ve read the Healers’ Vow. Confidentiality is less important than nonmalfeasance or beneficence. Your oaths would not stop you, if you felt it was for my own good, or someone else’s, to tell someone else what you would find. No…” she drifted off again, for almost two minutes this time. “ _Fuck._ If I were to let you into my head, you would have to make a vow to me, on your magic.”

John was curious. He could not imagine what secrets the girl was hiding, that made her so wary of legilimency. Was she protecting someone? He doubted whatever oath she would come up with could possibly be as binding as the Healers’ Vows. The one she would have read, the most well-known, only covered the general principles. Mind specialists took additional vows to reveal nothing of their patients’ personal secrets. “What vow would you have me take?” His tone was somewhat amused.

The girl dug into her schoolbag, emerging with a notebook and flipping it open to, John was surprised to see, Arithmancy notes. She flipped through the pages quickly, obviously looking for something, and then summoned a spare bit of parchment and a muggle pencil from her bag to copy out the following:

_I vow by my magic to maintain all information gathered from the mind of Hermione Jean Granger as secret; to maintain all secrets confided to me by Hermione Jean Granger in any medium, including discussions of information gathered from her mind; and to never act on any knowledge proceeding from such secrets without the express permission of Hermione Jean Granger, unless the knowledge can be safely attributed to another source. These vows to bind me to death and beyond, twice and thrice sworn in the eyes of the Powers and my student, on my magic, so mote it be._

Some sort of concealment spell, then, on the journal. And he had been wrong, in thinking that the girl could not write a more binding vow than those he had already taken – even those had included escape clauses in the case of the death of the patient or questioning by the ministry.

“You’re serious about this?”

The girl nodded.

He shrugged, still not believing that anything he might come across in her mind would be worth _this_ level of secrecy, but also not believing that he would ever need to tell anyone, anyway, and said the words. A spark flew from the tip of his wand and split in two, to strike each of them in the center of the forehead. He felt the binding fall over his magic, then assimilate, yet another vow in a long, long line of them.


	49. Part 3: A Captive Audience

7 September 1940

“ _Now_ ,” the girl said, obviously quite frustrated, and relieved to talk to _someone_ about it, “I can tell you that Tom and I accidentally did some weird blood-bonding ritual that lets us get inside each other’s head, and he’s been exploring the Chamber of bloody Secrets all morning and keeps dragging my consciousness down there with him and that _fucking_ basilisk, which is why I can’t focus on anything for more than five minutes, and I’d really appreciate your help in _stopping_ that from happening. I mean it’s all well and good to be able to _find_ him when I need to, but this is just obnoxious, and he won’t leave me alone.”

John stared. “What?”

The girl looked at him like he was slow, and started ticking off points on her fingers. “One: Tom and I did something stupid over the summer, and now, as far as we can tell, we have an open door into each other’s mind, whenever we want to use it. Two: Tom keeps dragging _my_ mind into _his_ to see what he’s up to, which is admittedly interesting, and makes Parsel make a lot more sense, but is also somewhat terrifying, and it’s not helping me focus on what _I_ need to do, which is figure out how you do this damn scrying thing. Three: I want to find a way to keep Tom from messing with my head just because he can. I told him off quite severely just now. I think he’s pouting, and will let me be for a while. I’ll probably have to go down to the damn Chamber and apologize to him after lunch. Four: You are a licensed Legilimens, with experience in mind healing. If anyone can tell me what’s going on here, you could. Five: I have secrets, as you have probably guessed from the fact that I just casually mentioned Slytherin’s fucking Chamber of the gods-cursed things. There’s no way I’d be so irresponsible as to let someone muck about in my head without having some measure of control over what they’d do with anything they found out. Hence the oaths. And speaking of, while we’re at it, six: I need to learn Occlumency, ASAP, because Dumbledore’s a fucking psychopath, and uses legilimency on students because it makes his job easier, and he won’t stop trying to catch my eye in class. What part of this do you not understand?”

The professor shook his head slightly, the foremost thought in his mind that _apparently_ , Miss Hermione Granger was _not_ the quiet, studious, well-behaved (albeit curious) young transfer the professors (except Dumbledore) all believed her to be. “Let’s start at the beginning. What stupid thing did you and Tom do? This blood bond, what was it?”

“Oh,” the girl smiled _maliciously_ , John thought, “That’s not the beginning. You can’t tell anyone anything I tell you, or show you in my memories, or act on them in any way, now, which means that I can tell you _everything_.

“I was born in September of _1979_ , and was sent here in some kind of accident in July, _from July of 1994_. I still don’t know how or why, and I doubt I ever will. I turned up in the middle of one of the air raids, in London, and I’m _pretty sure_ that my arrival caused the demolition of the building I was found in, and the deaths of everyone around me, not a bomb. But that’s what the muggles thought it was.

“The muggles who found me sent me to an orphanage, where I met Tom, and _stupidly_ said something that let him figure out I was from the future, before figuring out who he is. That’s important, because in the 1960s and 1970s, in my timeline, my _old_ timeline, Tom comes to power as the next Dark Lord after Grindelwald, on a platform of blood purity and vicious murder. I’m trying to stop that, by the way. He’s not a blood purist, yet, and I was thinking that all I’d have to do was distract him from that line of thinking, and maybe turn him toward reforming the system from within, rather than through a blood-soaked revolution, but that won’t stop the blood purists from making a move on their own, without Tom, and if they’re politically savvy enough, they could make a much greater impact on society as a whole than his terrorism ever did. So, really, I don’t just need to change Tom’s path, but throw us at Wizarding politics so hard that we completely derail all of this post-Grindelwald dissatisfaction with muggleborns and muggle rights. And I need to do this without Tom seeing what I’m up to, or find a way to break it to him gently, because I _know_ that he won’t like that I’m manipulating him, even though it’s mutually beneficial to him, because in 1994, he’s a disembodied spirit who’s somehow managed to fuck up an immortality bid and is only slightly more alive than a ghost.

“Speaking of which, this is _1940_. Grindelwald’s still around, and World War II is just starting, and there are thousands of people dying in camps already, and it’s _not going to end_ for another five years, and I tried to think how to stop it and save everyone, but even if we kill Hitler, it’s the same as for Tom, the same political pressures that allowed him to rise will still be there, and there are other NAZIs to take his place, and make him a martyr for their cause, and at least I know that in _my_ timeline, Hitler started making mistakes eventually, and that led to the end of the war. If someone else is in charge, it could go the other way, and I don’t _want_ to live in a NAZI-run world, even leaving aside the damage Grindelwald would do to the world if they win and their camps keep funneling him power. So I know all of this is going on and _there’s nothing I can do about it_. I can’t even tell Tom, because I’m not sure yet that he wouldn’t think that using a hundred thousand people like batteries is a clever idea.

“And on top of _that_ , killing unknown numbers of bystanders with my arrival, and trying to save the future from Tom, and coming to terms with not being _able_ to save the present from the War, it’s like _I_ fucking died, in 1994. I just… vanished. Completely without a trace. That’s the _best_ case scenario. The worst would be, I guess, that there was an explosion or something at the other end, as well, or maybe that whatever happened sucked all the ambient energy out of the area or, oh God, no one knows what happens when you fuck with the space-time continuum and it’s impossible to close the loop. I can’t even think about it. My parents, if the universe didn’t end, I hope someone’s obliviated them by now, but I can’t even imagine what they went through, finding me _gone_. And my friends, they wouldn’t have known anything was wrong until this week, and they’re at Hogwarts. It’s not like anyone can erase my existence from _their_ minds. I suppose Dumbledore might lie to them, say my family moved to America or something. But that probably means that Tom is going to kill Harry, eventually, now, in that timeline, at least. They’re in a prophecy, you see. ‘Neither can live while the other survives.’ I blackmailed Dumbledore into telling me, beginning of last year. 1993. Whatever.

“Tom made, or makes, or would have made Horcruxes, you see. We killed one, in second year. Well, Harry did. But he didn’t know what it was. I had come across the description in one of the books tucked away in a corner of the stacks. It’s impossible to remove _all_ the references to a subject, in a magical library, you see, and I recognized what Harry told me… I got some friends to help me and we tricked Dumbledore into telling me the truth. All of the truth, or everyone would have the clues I had. He didn’t want to tell me, because I was _too young_ to bear the burden. Not too young to brew a perfect polyjuice in my free time and turn myself into a cat-person for two months while pursuing the information on my own, or too young to find out that Slytherin’s monster is a basilisk, and where the Chamber was, and how it had been moving around the castle, and not too young to get _petrified_ by the damn thing for another whole month until Harry and Ron finally figured out the clues I had left, not too young the year before to help Harry through a mad obstacle course which I’m more than slightly convinced was built entirely to lure Harry and Voldemort, that’s future-Tom, into a trap, together, or to face down a _mountain troll_ with nothing but my wand the _first Halloween_ after I found out about the existence of magic, but I was _too young_ to know what was going on and what was at stake. I told him to shove it up his arse. More politely, of course.

“Tom, in his fifth year, would have made his first Horcrux, in the old timeline. Which means that he hasn’t yet, here and now, travelled too far down that path, obsessively seeking immortality, and there’s still time to stop him. That’s what tied Tom to the mortal world, when he tried to kill Harry and Harry’s mum’s death, freely given in sacrifice, protected him, like Chrysmal. So now, or, I guess, then, he’s, Tom’s, just kind of a ghost-thing, and he’s trying to come back, and there’s absolutely nothing I can do to stop him in that timeline, but here, now, there might be a chance, for this future. But he’s probably going to kill Harry, you see, because Dumbledore is shit at taking care of people, and Ron’s an idiot, and I’m only just now starting to see that we fucked up badly in not making other friends and connections early on. There’s no one else looking out for him. So I’ve failed him, as a friend. And the only thing I can do to make it up, really, is to see if I can’t make the future of _this_ world a better place than the one I came from, you see?

“So I’ve been keeping busy, trying to distract myself from all that. Do you know how hard it is to get dropped half a century in the past, with no money, no identity, to friends to turn to? No, of course you don’t. So more or less the first thing we did, me and Tom, was run back and forth between the Wizarding and muggle world about twenty times, selling muggle gold to the goblins and taking advantage of the idiotically fixed exchange rates between the Galleon and the Pound Sterling, and making enough money to get me here, and pay my fees and so on. About three hundred Galleons, starting with about four Sickles. The goblins were impressed.

“We spent a lot of time together, and one day I referred to Tom as the brother I never had. He came up with the bright idea to do this blood-brothers thing, a muggle children’s ritual. It’s supposed to be entirely symbolic, but the magic rose up, and I felt something needed to be said, so I did, and he did, and now we’re apparently blood-kin, though I’m not sure, because the only wards we’ve tried it on are Tom’s, and they might think we’re kin because _he_ thinks we’re kin. The way Tom works magic is… weird.

“And then we got here, and it’s just been one thing after the next, with classes, and Bellatrix, and that stupid duel, and bloody detentions, in the first week, and Dumbledore! I almost forgot Dumbledore. Sunday, the first day here, I had to go into his office and sign some papers, registering with the Ministry and so on. And he tried to _legilimens_ me. And Tom was riding in my head, keeping an eye out, because he doesn’t trust Dumbledore as far as he can throw him. Dumbledore hates Tom, too. So we thought it would be best if he didn’t come in with me. And he got Tom, instead, with the legilimency, which I guess is for the best. I mean, can you see Dumbledore _not_ fucking over the world, if he knew everything that I’ve just told you? It’d be almost as bad as Grindelwald! He’d think that he could use it all to his advantage, like Tom would, and not think about the long term. He’s not that good a leader, as far as I can tell, even in the 1990s, with another fifty years of practice. So it’s for the best that Dumbledore doesn’t get into my head. But he completely tore apart all of Tom’s unsolidified memories – he couldn’t remember breakfast, and until we managed to get everything back together, he wasn’t making any _new_ memories. He still doesn’t remember getting from Dumbledore’s office to the library, that day.

“ _So,_ that’s why I need you to teach me Occlumency. As soon as possible. And when you go into my memories, you should know that everything that happened between Bellatrix and Tom was consensual, I did verify that, and even if it’s not the most healthy of coping mechanisms, I think it was the best solution to a number of problems, for the moment. A patch, if you will, that will let us hold things together until I can work through things with them. I… think that’s all. Oh, and I definitely wasn’t going to blow up the Transfiguration wing. I think. And I’m pretty sure there’s nothing _very_ illegal about any of the potions-work we’re planning on attempting. Much. And neither Tom nor I really cares about that, anyway, and you can’t tell anyone, so it doesn’t matter and you shouldn’t even bother making an argument over it. Okay. That’s all.”

Hermione stopped talking rather suddenly, having apparently run out of things that she considered _immediately_ important and nodded, sitting back in her armchair.


	50. Part 3: Memory Lane

7 September 1940

Hermione nodded and sat back in her armchair. John blinked at her. He had, in fact, not done anything _but_ blink at her since she said she had been born _forty years in the future_. _Johnny boy_ , he thought to himself, _you may well be in over your head. Again_. He wasn’t sure how much of all that he believed. If even the smallest part of it was true, the girl did need help. And there was only one way to find out.

“May I?” He raised the tip of his wand from the desk.

Hermione nodded, and met his eyes solidly.

“ _Legilimens_.”

The world fell apart. John felt himself pulled into the girl’s eyes and straight into her memories, as though into a pensive.

_There was a flash and a concussion wave, and then the sound of the air rushing back, and the building collapsed around the body of a naked girl, who had fallen out of the air and was lying in a crumpled heap on the floor._

It was strange. Perhaps because she _wanted_ him there, to see that she was telling the truth. It was entirely unlike any reading he had ever done before. Most people had natural shields that protected their memories.

Flash forward: _Tom Riddle,_ Tell me the truth! _A command, the girl’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t think I will. I don’t like compulsions, you see.”_

Two days of deep mourning, _her parents’ faces, memories of her friends, her childhood, her life_. And a parallel track of persistent thoughts, worming their way through the memories, emotions unable to entirely overwhelm the calculating part of her mind: Facts about World War II, as the muggles knew it, with the later additions of Wizarding knowledge. What had happened, how it had ended, clinically cool evaluations of her position in this foreign country of the Past.

John could tell the moment that she seriously accepted the thought that she could not, would not be able to return to her old life any time soon, if ever. The memories of her life shut down, folded away, her entire focus shifting to the _now_ and her own survival.

_Tom_ the memory of their first meeting again, memories of everything she had ever been told about him, of what she knew he had done in the old future, and then everything she had ever read about psychopathy, sociopaths, sadism, social engineering, manipulation. _The image of a pair of twin red-headed boys sharing a malicious grin._ _The diary that Tom had given her,_ the knowledge that it was a trick, _to turn him on his head, keep him off balance, make him see me as a person, not a thing to be played with, to use him as much as he uses me, mustn’t let him know_, the journal entry she had written, the power-play in Tom’s room, advice, the cover story, the plot to get her into Hogwarts, conversations about time travel and the nature of the universe (or multiverse), the plot to take advantage of the system, to make money, the Chamber of Secrets, Parsel lessons, shopping at Diagon Alley, _dragging Tom across the street by the hood of his cloak pulled over his eyes as he swats at her arm_ , coming to trust Tom ever so slightly, treating him like a more-or-less normal person, irritating each other like siblings, _Have you read Machiavelli?... The important part is about leaders who are hated and respected._ All of these things flashed through John’s mind, a montage of images, statements, ideas, pages from books, a veritable _flood_ of information, slowing as they reached the Blood Bonding.

* * *

 

_“I’ve come to think of you as the little brother I never had. I would be remiss in my sisterly duties if I didn’t tell you there are people who will play your games and not hate you for it.”_

_“You think of me like a brother?”_

_…_

_He nodded, looking strangely vulnerable for the first time since Hermione had met him. “I’ve… never had any family. I… didn’t know what to make of it.”_

_“Oh. I didn’t think –”_

_“No, it’s fine. I decided it’s a good thing. Family is supposed to look out for each other, right?” Hermione nodded, watching him closely. “Would you… would you like to be my blood-sister? There’s this thing, that the younger boys do, sometimes, they call it blood-brothers…”_

_Hermione grinned. “I know. It was still done in my past-future. Of course I’ll be your blood-sister, Tom. Got a knife?” He pulled a potions knife from his bedside table. “Silly question, I suppose. Here. You cut my hand, and I’ll cut yours.”_

_She held out her left hand, and he cut surprisingly delicately across the meaty part of her palm, then handed her the knife and held out his own hand. She made a matching wound, and they clasped hands, aligning the cuts._

_Hermione felt that something needed to be said. She spoke solemnly, “By my blood and yours, I claim you, Tom Marvolo Riddle, as my blood-brother, whatever this may mean to us, until death and beyond.”_

_Tom smiled fiercely. “By my blood and yours, I claim you, Hermione Jean Granger, as my blood-sister, whatever this may mean to us, until death and beyond.”_

_Their magic rose around them as gold and green light, swirled around their clasped hands, and then collapsed, sinking into their skin. The sensation of power vanished after a moment, and they pulled away, Hermione looking closely at the twisted scar that crossed the back of her left hand and the healed cut on her palm, Tom more concerned with the blood that had run down his arm. She poked at the double helix design left by their entwined magic with her power, and Tom twitched._

* * *

 

 

The memories sped up again: _Tom’s experiments with the connection,_ _the train, Bellatrix Black, the other Slytherin boys, the sorting, Slytherin, waking up to Tom in her room and pain, the image of the scars on her back, beauty/pain/not asking/violation/anger, Tom’s face when he thought she didn’t appreciate his “art”, breakfast, _and then slowed.

* * *

 

_Tom waited outside, sitting with his back to the wall of the corridor, while Hermione entered the Deputy Headmaster’s Office. [_ memories of conversations about Dumbledore, what to do about him, Legilimency, Tom’s recounting of his first meeting with Dumbledore, Hermione’s thoughts on the similarities between Dumbledore and Tom, her analysis of Tom/Dumbledore interactions, memories of all the things Dumbledore had done _wrong_ in the three years she’d known him, _distrust]_

_Hermione finished skimming and signing the paperwork registering as a Hogwarts student and a resident of Magical Britain, as well as accepting her scholarship, was informed that most of her professors would consider her performance in her first lessons of the semester adequate demonstration of her practical skills, turned a teapot into a turtle for Professor Dumbledore._

_Dumbledore tried to enter her mind using legilimency._

_Hermione was overcome with dizziness and the sudden shock of Tom withdrawing from her mind. Hermione realized as she recovered that Tom had not been lying about Dumbledore’s penchant for using legilimency indiscriminately._

_Dumbledore stared at the girl. She stared back, carefully, focusing on the tip of his nose rather than meeting his eyes. [_ Memory of a lesson from a Legilimency primer _]_

_“What just happened, sir?”_

_“I’m not entirely certain, my dear.”_

_“Really, sir? Would you perhaps be willing to guess?”_

_“Well, child, if I had to guess, I would say that a mental parasite just removed itself rather suddenly from your mind.”_

_Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “And how would you know, sir, the contents of my mind?”_

_“Alas,” Dumbledore twinkled at her, “It is only a guess. I could not possibly know for sure.”_

_“Why, then, sir, would you have chosen that particular guess?” Before he could respond, she continued. “You wouldn’t have, by any chance, been using legilimency on a harmless student, would you?”_

_The twinkle disappeared and a degree of tension appeared around Dumbledore’s eyes. Hermione did not see this, however, as she was glaring resolutely at the tip of the Professor’s nose, to the exclusion of all else._

_“Of course not, my dear. I have not touched your mind in the slightest.”_

_“I see… And what of my ‘mental parasite’? Did you touch its mind?”_

_“If such were the case, such a parasite could not be referred to as a ‘harmless student,’ I am sure,” responded the Professor. Hermione thought she may have imagined it, but he had, perhaps, put ever so slightly more emphasis on “harmless” than “student”. [_ memory of Parsel lessons and learning to hear such subtle distinctions _]_

_Young Dumbledore, Hermione thought, was not quite as good at verbal sparring as she remembered his older counterpart to be [_ memory of a confrontation, a younger Hermione, an older Dumbledore, in the Headmaster’s office, a Phoenix and a sword _]. Perhaps it was because he had not yet delved into political life._

_“I think I know where we stand, then.” Hermione said, in her most enigmatic tone, and moved toward the door. “I’d say it’s been a pleasure, but… well…” She opened the door, and left, with a final comment tossed back at him: “Please bear in mind, Professor, I don’t appreciate uninvited company.”_

_The door closed behind her with a soft click._

* * *

 

And then the aftermath:

* * *

 

_“Tom? Tom, are you alright?”_

_“Ah, more or less? Right bitch of a headache. Quiet?”_

_In the library, memories:_ the experiments, the legilimency primer, Dumbledore’s words _, connections made,_ questions – but not time for those now _._

_She pushed herself away from her body, and found herself staring at it through Tom’s eyes. She turned her attention inward, like when she was talking to the Sorting Hat, and saw Tom’s recent memories as a tumbled tower of iridescent blocks, different facets showing different sensory input. Some of them had rolled away from the others. She touched them lightly_

The gleam of a knife, the taste of a sausage, _and_ the overwhelming pain of magical backlash _flashed through her consciousness._

Tom? _She whispered._ Tom, can you hear me?

Yes. What are you doing?

Legilimency, I think. What does your mind usually look like?

I don’t know. I expect it’s different from the outside. I feel like I’ve been torn apart. Everything is … disconnected. I’m missing bits and pieces. What did we have for breakfast?

Hold on, I’m going to try something. Sorry in advance if this hurts.

Just do it.

_She nudged the block with the taste of sausage gently until it came into contact with the rest of the pile._

Sausages? I had sausage for breakfast. And you were talking about the Slytherin room wards.

Right. Some of your memories have come disconnected from the rest. I’m going to push them all back together so you can remember them, but I don’t think I can put them back where they belong.

I think maybe I can. Just get everything in contact, and I’ll see if I can put things back in order.

_She pushed all the blocks that had fallen away from the mass of the collapsed tower back to it. The furthest from the tower was the one with the gleam of a knife, the feel of it slicing through her own skin, and the taste of blood. She shuddered, slightly, as she realized it was hers, but put it in contact with the other pieces. She pulled away as the tower started to reconstruct itself, growing out of, she could now see, a maze of other fantastical shapes, twisted around each other in what had to be more than three dimensions, but she could not visualize it as anything more. It was beautiful, like an Escher painting, strange, and oddly compelling. She wanted to go further, see more…_

Hermione, still there?

Yes, Tom.

I think it’s done. Go back to yourself before I break the connection so we don’t have to put you back together as well.

_She turned outward again, with a final longing “glance” at the maze of Tom’s mind, and followed a dim awareness of her own body until she found herself looking across the table again. She blinked._

_“Hey, Tom?”_

_“Yes, Hermione?”_

_“Let’s not do that again for a while.”_

_“Okay.”_

_Tom broke the connection._

* * *

 

 

Forward, again. John wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take, but he couldn’t seem to break the connection. His tutors in legilimency would be so disappointed in him. _Slughorn’s speech, watching Bellatrix Black see Tom’s “artwork” through Tom’s eyes, watching Tom look at the scars on Bellatrix’s back, arguments, capitulation, ‘_ How can this be my life? How can this be _anyone’s_ life? _’; Monday: first classes – polyjuice, experiments planned, plots – Binns not dead – failure, embarrassment, himself through Hermione’s eyes, other people’s magic seen through Tom’s eyes – Arithmancy, fear of giving away that she knew more than she should – Astronomy, attraction to the young Professor. Tuesday, Flitwick. _The memories slowed again.

* * *

 

_As soon as Flitwick said “emotionally motivated spells,” Tom put his head down on the desk. The other Slytherins were casting sidelong glances at him and sniggering. When Flitwick released them to practice their Cheering Charms on each other, Hermione asked him what was wrong._

_“I can’t do Cheering Charms,” said Tom. “I was hoping we were done with them. I might as well take a ‘D’ for this term right now.”_

_“What? Why can’t you do Cheering Charms?”_

_“I –“ Tom began, but Scorpius interrupted him, having already received a Cheering Charm from Edmond: “No one knows. It’s the only thing old Riddle is bad at. Makes the rest of us feel much better about being in the same class as him.” He grinned and shot a Charm at Leo._

_“It’s true,” said Tom, demonstrating by sending a perfectly well-shaped but ineffectual Charm at Hermione. “It wasn’t an issue last year – we only had the one week on them – but if the whole term is on emotive spells, I’m fucked.”_

_“You seem so distraught over that fact,” noted Hermione drily._

_“Being an emotionless bastard does have its up-sides,” said Tom quietly. “If there’s really nothing I can do, I’ll just use the time as a study hall or something.”_

_“Does it work on you?”_

_“What?”_

_Hermione shot a Cheering Charm at Tom. “What do you feel when I hit you with a Cheering Charm?” She did it again._

_He thought about it. “A slight sensation of warmth around my heart, and it makes my hands sweaty and a little tingly. Why?”_

_“Mostly just curious. I have an idea. One second, let me get Aggie over here. Aggie!” Tom made a face._

_“I think you should come over into my mind, like when I was in your head in Divination yesterday, just float in that surface-thoughts space and see if you can feel what I feel when I get hit with it.”_

_“Okay,” Tom shrugged. “It can’t possibly hurt, can it?” [Famous last words,_ thought John _.] He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, as though he had decided to just take a nap, and Hermione felt his consciousness enter her mind._

_Aggie bounced over and Hermione asked her to practice, because someone, she said, shooting a fake-angry look at Tom’s body, thinks himself too good for cheering charms._

Hey! _Thought Tom._

Just go with it, _responded Hermione,_ it’s consistent with the way most of them think of you, you know.

_Hermione went first, summoning a memory to the front of her mind. A stern, older woman told a somewhat younger Hermione that she was a witch, and all the things that went wrong around her so very inexplicably were magic, and best of all that Hermione was not going mad… And then Hermione cast the spell and let the memory fade back out of conscious thought._

_And then it was Aggie’s turn._

Ready?

“Gaudio scirere!”

_Endorphins and hormones flooded through Hermione’s body with a rush of giddiness._

_Tom was overwhelmed, falling back into his own body, and then out of his chair. “Holy shit!” Everyone turned to see what had just happened._

_Hermione giggled, and quickly cast the general cancellation on herself. “Alright there, Tom?”_

_He returned to his chair, shaking his head. Flitwick bustled over, asking if perhaps Mr. Riddle needed to visit the Hospital wing._

_“I think that might be best, Professor,” he managed to respond._

_Flitwick looked around for the nearest student. “Miss, ah, Granger, yes? Would you accompany Mr. Riddle to Madam Turner? Thank you, thank you. The rest of you lot, how are your Charms coming along? If you’ve got the Cheering Charm, you would do well to review the basics, you know…”_

_Hermione grabbed their bags and led Tom out into the hall, where he sat rather abruptly against a wall._

_“I don’t need to go to the Hospital Wing,” he said, “Just…give me a minute. Wow.”_

_“Maybe we should stop doing things like this,” suggested Hermione. “It doesn’t seem to turn out well for you, in general.”_

_“No, I’m fine. It’s just… do normal people feel like that all the time?”_

_Hermione laughed and sat next to him, “Not quite like that, no. That was a rather concentrated burst of happiness.”_

_“No shit. I …felt like I could do anything. Take on the world. Excited and just… giddy. It was… intense. And really uncomfortable and overwhelming. People like that?” He looked miserable._

_“In fairness, it’s not as overwhelming if you’re used to it. So do you think you could make someone feel that the way you make them feel pain? It’s similar enough, I think. All emotions are based in chemical reactions at some level, after all. You just have to know what you want the target to feel. That’s why you have to focus on a happy memory to cast it, or bafflement for the Confunding Charm, or anger for Ira.”_

_“Well, I don’t think I have any “happy” memories, if that’s happiness, but I could give it a shot,” he said, pointing his wand at Hermione._ “Gaudio scirere.”

_She giggled, sensations of joy welling up inside her. “_ Finite _. I think you’ve got it.”_

_“I’m not entirely sure it was worth it,” he said with a shudder._

* * *

 

_That_ , John thought, was _entirely_ disturbing. Everything she had shown him, so far, was, on some level or another, but… He couldn’t completely articulate the thought as Hermione continued to run through the rest of the week’s memories: _battling Sedgwick, dueling Tom, utter exhaustion, detention, more classes, writing vows, negotiating, taking vows, more detention, Kitty Turner and her healing lesson, blood magic, Tom’s wards, talking about power with Tom, the “most dangerous spell you know” in Defense, more vows, with Bellatrix this time, Bellatrix talking about her childhood [running in parallel, memories of her friend Harry, 50 years from now, telling her about his childhood] and what her scars meant in her family, “Cassie”, the invitation to the Hufflepuff Back-To-School Bash, more Astronomy._

Then the memories plunged into darkness, despite the lighting _, Tom cutting into Bellatrix’s back, covered in scars, retreating, shame, shock and horror, healing, over and over and over, Bellatrix lolling in a sea of pain, half conscious, Tom grinning, looking sated,_ vampiric son of a bitch _, a break, dinner, lying, Bellatrix’s joy at seeing her back unscarred, returning to the darkness, Tom removing the scars from the girl’s legs, the sight of Bellatrix’s arm, deathly pale in Tom’s hands, vivisected and not bleeding, Bellatrix whole, nicknames, Bellatrix completely relaxed under Tom’s blade as he carved a design into her newly-healed back, Bellatrix overwhelmed when it’s done, crying, hugging Tom, Tom’s eyes begging her to save him from Bellatrix’s gratitude, Bellatrix asking if she could stay, and crying herself to sleep, Bellatrix in the morning light of Slytherin’s enchanted “windows”, burying her head in the pillow, nightshirt riding up to show the new scars on her back thin and pale, a tangle of thorns, the runic sword, the spray of ivy reaching for the light – beautiful_.

It stopped. It finally _stopped_ , and John was able to pull himself back into his own mind, end the spell.

“Holy shit,” said John. “I –”

He passed out, his eyes rolling back in his head and twitching from side to side, even before he finished the sentence.

_Fuck_ , thought Hermione. _I broke a professor_.


	51. Part 3: First Look

7 September 1940

Hermione checked the time. It was half eleven. She had been sitting with the unconscious Professor McKinnon for nearly forty minutes, entirely unsure whether she should get help or continue to wait. She decided to give it until noon, and if McKinnon had not recovered by then, she would go find Madam Turner, who seemed like the person most likely to be able to help and also least likely to ask unpleasant questions about exactly what had happened. She returned to the rare book on mind magics that she had borrowed from the professor’s bookcase.

Five minutes later, John jolted awake with a start. He was somewhat surprised to see that he was still in his office, rather than the hospital wing, and very surprised that Hermione was still there as well… and apparently making good headway in Perenelle Flamel’s brick, _The Nature of Thought_. His mind felt uncomfortably full, and he knew that when he went to look for it, he would find a new wing had been built in his memory-palace, off the Hall of Patients.

“So,” he said tiredly, looking at the girl in front of him, who guiltily slid the book onto the desk, but not, he noted, before checking the page number. “You’re out of time, and how did you put it again? ‘ _Attempting to learn mind magic on the fly to defend yourself and your blood-bonded sociopath from the former-future leader of the Light, who is currently in the middle of a decade-long struggle against the current European Dark Lord_ ’ and instead of asking for help, the two of you thought you’d just muck about in each other’s heads, sharing emotions and thought patterns and perspective and _physical sensations of emotion_. Powers, that was weird, by the way. And you’re distracting yourself from wanting to save the world, because you know you can’t right now, by focusing on changing the future, and allowing yourself to be distracted by classes and dangerous experiments and Tom Riddle’s sadism and Black family power plays?”

Hermione glared at him. “In my defense, it’s been a _really long week_. And I am asking for help now, aren’t I?”

John started laughing uncontrollably as he realized that yes, it really had only been a week – the blood-bonding ritual had been the previous Friday. “No,” there were tears in his eyes, and he couldn’t stop chuckling, “ _now_ , you’ve entrapped me into being your captive audience to listen to all your problems. That’s not the same thing as asking for help, really, and you know it. You knew my Healers’ Vow would compel me to help you in any way you would let me, did you not?” Hermione nodded reluctantly. “And that my vow to you does not permit me to do anything except offer to listen, and to teach you, as that is the only way I can possibly help you make your way through this mess without letting anyone else know or acting on the knowledge I have gained from your mind.”

“That,” she said firmly, “was intentional. There are laws about time travel, you know. It is important to control the flow of information about myself and the possibilities of the future. We will muddle through as we have to, Tom and I, and I will take on people as allies as I can, but I will not announce to all and sundry that time travel is possible, or that my friend and I are going to try to take over the world to save it from itself. And the Healers’ Vow is like every other Healer’s spell, and every other vow, really – dangerous in the wrong conditions.” She peered into his face, seeing the lines of years of stress and other people’s sorrows, and sighed. “I didn’t mean to trap you, though. If you want, I will refuse your assistance. That should be enough to release the compulsion.”

“ _Che graziosa_. How kind of you to offer,” Hermione might have imagined it, but she thought that sounded a bit sarcastic. “Does Tom know that you two going to take over the world to save it?”

“No, he thinks _he’s_ going to take over the world _because it’s there_.” Hermione smirked, and John was forcibly reminded of her dark companion. “He only cares about gaining power, not what’s done with it. I don’t blame him, really. He’s still very young. _I’m_ going to make sure we do it in such a way that our future is better than my past.”

The professor leaned into his desk, burying his face in his hands. “I would have helped you, if you had just asked, you know. At least with the Occlumency. I left St. Mungo’s because I could never say no, when they needed me.”

“Professor,” Hermione said softly, “It’s all or nothing. You couldn’t help with Occlumency without seeing why it’s needed.”

He looked up and smiled wanly, “You told Tom, didn’t you, that anyone who asks for help deserves it, simply by virtue of their personhood? You could have been a good Hufflepuff, I imagine, in a different world.” He sighed. “Give me some time to sort through the memories you gave me. Come back after lunch. Say, three o’clock? I didn’t get a good look at your mindscape, in that flood of memories you sent at me. I’ll have a look, and we’ll see how reasonable it might be for you to learn the basic Occlumency techniques. I imagine you should manage it alright, given what I saw of your experimenting with Tom.”

“Thank you, Professor.” He waved her away, but before she left, she had one more request: “Professor, could I borrow that book? It’s a very interesting topic, memory…”

John rolled his eyes. It _was_ an interesting book. It was a keystone text in the field of mind studies, required reading for post-NEWT students interested in working with the mind. Perenelle Flamel was a genius. It was _also_ highly restricted reading, due to the potential implications and applications of the theories therein. “Are you going to run off and try obliviating half the school in the next three hours?”

“Of _course_ not,” the girl drawled. “Obliviation isn’t covered until at _least_ chapter twelve, and I’d definitely need to work my way through Legilimency first if I didn’t want to make a hash of it.” John gave the girl a hard look, and she blushed, thinking that she had just sounded _awfully_ like Tom. “No, sir. I’m not going to obliviate anyone in the next three hours. On my honor as a Gryffindor.”

“Fine! Take it. Bring it back with you at three, and don’t let anyone else look at it in the meanwhile.” He let his head drop back in his chair, then added as he heard her slide the book off the desk, “And don’t lie to yourself. Whatever you may have been in the future, you’re more Slytherin now than anyone but Tom… and maybe Kat Turner.”

Hermione did not respond, and a moment later, he heard the door click shut behind her. He was asleep in minutes, his mind exploring Hermione’s memories, cataloguing her problems, a small, neglected part of his soul happy to be doing his life’s work again, and the much greater part of his consciousness thinking regretfully that there had been a _reason_ he had stopped doing this. The neglected part of himself brushed off the concerns. Sanity was _highly_ overrated, and life was dull without a little bit of madness. Besides, Hermione was a good kid. She needed his help. And so he would help her.

…

John’s consciousness strolled through the hall, almost a gallery, which represented the memories Hermione had thrust upon him. It was meticulously organized, each section-element-time period leading flawlessly into the next, with little windows here and there, linking in other memories or thoughts or bits of knowledge related to the memory that defined the section of the passage. Every aspect of the memories was marvelously detailed, some of the “windows” showing entire passages from relevant textbooks.

The hall proceeded in chronological order, with the most recent memories she had shown him, those of that morning and the previous evening, playing out nearest to him, and then moving backward in time to the point of her arrival in 1940, which had been the first thing he had seen. There was a door at the far end of the hall, light gold, which must be Hermione’s color, he thought, but he was unable to open it, signifying that there were more memories to be added, but he had not yet seen them. This was often the case, when there were links between the memories he had seen and a patient’s past – the memories the patient had been reminded of were not in the corridor, or not all of them, and yet they must have happened at some point, hence the door.

On the whole, he thought, it was rather _too_ well organized. There were no embarrassing personal details, except perhaps the girl’s attraction to the Astronomy professor (and who could blame her for _that_? John thought, watching the woman in one of Hermione’s memories). There were spots of darkness, but nothing she hadn’t warned him about beforehand. The girl had clearly chosen which things she wanted him to see, showcasing her relationship with Tom and what she considered the major events of the past week. She had to have left some things out, and the ease with which one element blended into the next suggested that she had done so on purpose. No one’s memories were _this_ coherent without some conscious effort.

He considered the way she had pulled him into her mind. It had almost been like a reversed-legilimency attack. Normally, an occlumens would throw up barriers or evade or actively attack an invading legilimens. If they were successful enough, they could reverse the connection, and attack the legilimens using legilimency themselves. Even people who _agreed_ to be legilimized would subconsciously fight off the legilimens. Hermione… had actively pulled his consciousness into her mind, he thought, and then flooded him with the memories verifying the story she had told him. John wondered if this method of… communication?... was due to the back-door legilimency the two children had been practicing on each other. She had described Tom as “pulling her into his mind” hadn’t she?

He returned to the memories of the blood bond and the nature of the connection between the young Slytherins, and chuckled to himself. The closest thing to this that he had seen was an old, _old_ blood ritual for children who were betrothed in arranged marriages. It hadn’t been done regularly for centuries, but one of his patients had done it with her boyfriend, before they pulled a Romeo-and-Juliet. Selene Prewett. A light blue door formed in front of him, and he knew that if he opened it, it would lead to his memories of Selene, now that he had made that connection. He ignored it.

The ritual, if he recalled correctly, was meant to help the young future spouses come to understand each other, and to feel comfortable becoming a part of each other’s family. He watched Hermione’s assessment of the bond – that it was meant to help the blood-siblings protect each other – and thought that that could easily be part of it, though he supposed it had more to do with what each of them thought _family_ meant. Hermione had had a family, and he suspected that she therefore had a fairly good idea of what the idea meant, but judging from a few comments in the course of the family history scrying project, John suspected that Tom did not. So really, the bond could have any number of reasons for its form, and until John got a look at it from inside Hermione’s mindscape, he would not be able to tell how extensive it might be, or whether they could reduce or close it.

He turned to the other memories the girl had shown him, starting from the beginning. It was frankly horrifying, or had been when she first realized, that her arrival had (possibly) been responsible for the deaths of innocent bystanders, but John thought from the flashes of related memories that she had not been the one responsible for the accident itself. Survivor’s guilt, then.

She was already doing the best thing she could for that, letting go of her own sense of responsibility in the matter, but there was a second wave of guilt, associated both with this matter and the fact of the War on the Continent, that she had so _thoroughly_ set aside her previous guilt and sense of responsibility on deciding that she could not do anything to help. Essentially she felt bad about _not_ feeling bad. She was also, somewhat amusingly, to John, reflexively worried about what it said about her, that she could set aside her guilt and worry over the War so easily, and focus on the present.

Walking through the hall of her memories, it was clear, of course, that she was not entirely emotionless, as she seemed to worry. That particular emotion was a complex swirl of dark colors, marked along the left wall, as he walked along chronologically. The right wall _was_ stark white – void of emotions – after Hermione’s logical mind managed to reassert itself, but it was the effect of a strong logical side and the ability to compartmentalize, not because she was inherently _wrong_ in some way. John noticed that the emotionally charged related memories – parents, friends – were also laid out along the left wall, while the more clinical or academic memories – pages from books, Hermione’s analysis of Tom – were laid out on the right. The form that the hall had taken was due to the fact that they were John’s memories of his interaction with Hermione, but the meticulousness with which everything was laid out was a reflection of Hermione’s mind, as she had chosen what and how to share things.

As soon as he noticed Hermione’s analysis of Tom, a dark green door appeared, almost black against the white wall of Hermione’s hall. It would almost certainly lead to John’s own analysis of Tom. Hermione’s was far more detailed, having greater access to the boy and drawing on a wealth of muggle studies of the kind of person she thought he was. Pity, John thought. From Hermione’s memories (which were associated with quite a bit of frustration), it seemed that this _psychology_ wouldn’t really begin to advance until the 1970s, and the magicals didn’t really discuss the workings of the mind freely, even in the 1990s. The major points of the analyses were similar, though Hermione seemed to think that people like Tom made up a much greater proportion of the population than he did.

He watched the confrontation Hermione had designed in Tom’s bedroom with some amusement: watched her play the boy like an easy instrument, confusing him, setting him back, making him see her as a person, proving her worth to him but always keeping something in reserve, earning his trust, explaining how she understood power, nudging him in a more socially acceptable direction… John thought that perhaps she was the more dangerous of the two of them. After all, Tom had nearly taken over England, or so Hermione said, but she was proposing the _world_ , and actually had tenuous plans to govern it once it was tamed. He was relieved to see that most of her related thoughts and feelings and memories when it came to taking over the world were benevolent, and involved representative governments. Still, it was a long game she was looking at, and the road of power was perilous to one’s sense of morality.

Moreover, the scene with Tom highlighted the fact that Hermione did _not_ think like the average fourteen or fifteen-year old. Granted most of the teenagers he had treated were unstable in some way, but after years of teaching, he had a fairly decent idea of the level of maturity a fourth-year student might be expected to display, and this was… not it, either in her conscious actions with Tom or in the degree of organization of her memories. It was clear she was intelligent, but… if he were to assign a mental age to the girl, he thought, it would be closer to mid-twenties than mid-teens.

The children had sent letters back and forth with Headmaster Dippet, enrolling Hermione at Hogwarts. Hermione had been surprised, he saw, that it had been so easy, and there had been so few questions. Then there was a month or so when things fell into a pattern, apparently, or Hermione had thought that John didn’t need to see anything – apparently this was the part where Hermione and Tom ran their money-making scheme, as the next clear memory was of her paying off her Hogwarts fees for the year.

Somewhere in that time, Hermione had decided that she needed to touch Tom all the time, either because she thought it would do him good to have some human contact, or because she knew it irritated him, and she wanted to keep him off guard. Maybe both. Maybe _she_ just wanted to reach out. Looking at the time before and after the skip, he saw that she had more fully resolved her survivor’s guilt and had stopped thinking much about herself and whether she was a bad person for not trying to solve World War II. She was actually starting to like Tom, and think of him as a friend. It had become difficult for her, John saw, to remind herself that he was dangerous and not even an ally.

John watched Tom almost as closely as Hermione after the skip, thinking that, if he was any judge at all after three years (and as the unofficial head of disciplinary interventions and keeper of the Trouble List, he kept a close eye on all the troublemakers in the school), the boy was tenuously relating the girl as a person, whether or not he knew it. He had not lied to her in any of the memories John had seen (Tom was always wide-eyed and innocent looking when he lied, and afterward would be somewhat more dismissive and sneering than usual, as though believing his lies was a failure worthy of his scorn), perhaps because he was trying to prove her wrong in her assessment of his character, or because he was trying to build up some sort of trust on her part. It was hard to say. John also had not seen any of the little power plays Tom had used to try to better his position among the Slytherins. Perhaps she had impressed him so deeply that he was content to follow her lead, and not try to assert his dominance over her.

Or again, perhaps he had only been biding his time, John thought, as he recalled the “Living Cameo” incident. Both John and Tom (by his own admission) had been quite impressed by Hermione’s refusal to bow in the face of that particular display. John, however, thought that Hermione would have done better to distance herself at that point. He knew why she hadn’t – she had shown him the considerations in linked memories and thoughts – but still…

John moved on. The discovery that Dumbledore was using unauthorized (and illegal) legilimency on students was frankly disturbing. He had had his suspicions, but Hermione and Tom’s experiences were incontrovertible proof… which of course he couldn’t _do_ anything with, unless he could find proof from a source other than Hermione. Maybe Tom would testify. It was no secret that Dumbledore hated the boy. If he had attempted to read Tom the first time they met, the same as he had Hermione, John wasn’t surprised. The things Hermione had seen him do alone were… disturbing. You really couldn’t pay him enough money to go fishing around in Tom Riddle’s mind unguided. But Dumbledore being Dumbledore, John wouldn’t be surprised if he had tried to read Tom several times since, just in case he was up to something. He spent some time peering through a window at an earlier memory while these thoughts chased each other around his head. It was the one of Hermione confronting Dumbledore in the Headmaster’s office. She looked much younger, and almost as angry as she had facing down Tom. Had she said that was just a year before? Puberty, he thought, had apparently hit her like a rampaging quintaped. He moved on slowly, knowing what was to follow, and not looking forward to it.

The issues with the Black heiress presumptive were nearly as disturbing as those with Dumbledore’s legilimency. John sought those conversations and watched them play out. He did not know what to do about it. It was well known that the oldest families, especially the dark ones, but the light as well, to a certain extent, had a habit of training their children rather… strictly. He had seen more than one break down entirely, in his time at St. Mungo’s. But the law was on the side of the Heads of House. A child was House property, until they reached the age of majority, at which point they were generally already betrothed or had been “sold” to another family in marriage. Hearing that Cassiopeia Rosier – it couldn’t have been anyone else – had killed herself over the summer was absolutely devastating. She had been one of his favorite students. She would have been a sixth-year Slytherin, though he would have bet good money that the Hat had debated giving her to Hufflepuff. He had noticed that she was gone, of course, but it was not so unusual for the girls from the older families to complete only their OWLs. He had thought that she had gotten engaged, not _died_. Hadn’t Horace said he was planning on attending the wedding? And doing it in front of little Bellatrix, with her wand… That had to be tearing the girl up. And again, he couldn’t offer her help because of that damnable vow.

It seemed Hermione had spent quite a lot of time on the… relationship between Tom and Bella in the past week, between dwelling on it and talking to them about it and the makeshift surgery they had done the night before. John couldn’t decide if he really wanted to tell Kitty Turner about that (even if he could), or if her wrath would be just too terrible to behold. It wasn’t _technically_ a violation of her “No Perverting the Healing Arts” edict, but it _was_ grossly irresponsible, even though Tom really was a gifted vivisectionist? Was that a word? John couldn’t bring himself to think of the boy as a surgeon, though the Healers he had done his surgical rotation under ten years ago would have been impressed by that forearm dissection, if it had been done on a cadaver, especially since it had been done with a knife, and not surgical spells. John didn’t even want to _know_ how Tom had managed it on a living person.

The fact that Hermione was apparently prepared to try to take on Bellatrix’s issues with her family and their power games and Cassie’s death, and Tom’s sadistic tendencies without any advice or guidance was frankly disturbing, though he couldn’t say that he would really have had any more resources at hand if he had been at St. Mungo’s.  There was nothing he could do, legally, for Bellatrix besides adjust her perspective so that she was more compliant, and neither she nor her family would want that. And Tom, if John had to bet on it, would fight tooth and nail to keep his nature unchanged. It would take a serious subjugation spell to get anywhere near Tom’s mind with the intent to change him, and, if the ease with which he had cut into Bellatrix did suggest that he had done things terrible enough to deserve it, there was no proof, and no one would authorize an active reprioritization without a Wizengamot order. Not to mention, John had sworn to himself that he wouldn’t do _that_ ever again.

He would, John thought, have to have a serious talk with Hermione about the dangers of taking on too many other people’s problems. The burn-out rate for mind-healers was something like 95% in three years. It had been a minor miracle that he had made it through five before he had had to give it up. Hermione obviously wouldn’t be using Legilimency on her friends (he hoped), but constant exposure to and a sense of responsibility for their problems and, in Tom’s case, his actions, would be detrimental to her in the long run, especially as he suspected that she would use them to avoid her own issues.

 _Bugger me_ , he thought, just before his Alert Charm woke him up _, I didn’t just take on one new patient… I’ve got at least three, and I can’t talk to two of them._


	52. Part 3: Bloody Mental, the Lot of Them

7 September 1940

Hermione reached the Great Hall shortly before half-twelve, found Cherie and assured the Hufflepuffs that she would be attending the party, rather inhaled her lunch, and retreated to her bedroom to have a closer look at the Flamel book.

She pinged Tom on the way down the stairs, entering his mind just enough to speak to him. She was getting quite good at this, and could now manage to walk and “talk” at the same time. He was lounging on coils of basilisk and reading a scroll on Parseltongue that looked like it was about a thousand years old.

_Hey, Tom, the plan worked._

The “plan,” such as it was, had consisted of a briefly muttered “You should see if you can get McKinnon to give you some Occlumency pointers,” over breakfast, followed by, “Why would he agree to that?” and “I don’t know. Tell him about the Blood Bond and claim I’m driving you nuts. He’s an ex-Puff. He’ll probably volunteer.”

_He’s in?_

_Yeah. I made him swear the keep-secret-and-never-act oath, and I’ve filled him in on… pretty much everything._

_And he’s agreed to teach you Occlumency?_

_Well, he agreed to that beforehand, but I wasn’t about to let him into my mind without some sort of insurance against his running off screaming about the future. _

Tom radiated smugness. _We’ll turn you into a good Slytherin yet._

Hermione mentally rolled her eyes at him. _Sure you will. Do you know, I’ve been told in the last two days that I would have been a good Hufflepuff, and I should have been a Ravenclaw. No one seems to believe I belong in Slytherin but you and McKinnon – His actual words were that I was more Slytherin than anyone but you and Madam Turner – but I think if I told people I used to be a Gryffindor, they’d die laughing._

_Gryffindors are a load of overconfident, self-satisfied jackasses who care more about their precious values than their lives. Idiots, all of them. I still don’t believe you ever really belonged there. And it’s true: you should have been a Raven. But you are a Snake, as much as I am._

_You’re so sweet. Speaking of Ravens, and therefore books, McKinnon let me borrow a copy of Perenelle Flamel’s The Nature of Thought._

Tom nearly fell off his snake. It hissed at him in concern. _That’s been out of print for 200 years._

_I know._

_It’s the foundation of modern mind magics._

_I know._

_It’s so heavily restricted, there’s a three-year waiting list at Hare’s and an even longer one at Marshall’s. _

_You mentioned._

_You have to have NEWTs in Divination and be in a registered Mind Healer or Obliviation squad training program to buy a copy._

_Yes, you do, don’t you?_

_And he just let you walk out of his office with it?_

_Only until three. He made me promise not to try obliviating anyone before I take it back to him, and not to show it to anyone in the meanwhile. Didn’t say anything about copying it, though._

_Well that was sloppy of him. Generally McKinnon’s a bit sharper than that._

_I… may have broken him. Slightly. By showing him all the highlights of the past two months. In half an hour. He thought the Cheering Charm thing was weird, as well, by the way._

Tom shivered. _I’ve decided I’m quite content not to be able to do any more emotive spells. I’ll let you know if I change my mind._

Hermione laughed silently at him as she entered her room and headed straight for Tom’s stash of spare parchment. She cast a Copying Charm on _The Nature of Thought_. The quill quivered for a moment, then wrote:

_Naughty, naughty. You ought to know better than to try copying one of Lady Perenelle’s texts. If you try it again, mistakes will be made. Consider yourself warned. _

_Damn it. The Copying Charm doesn’t work on it. Apparently the publisher was big on copyright_ , Hermione grumped. _Hey, where did you put my notes on that disguise-a-book ward? If I use The Nature of Thought as the source material, it might make another book take its seeming, and that would be almost as good. _

_Third shelf from the top, on the side by my chair, with the books on wardcrafting you got from the library._

_Thanks! I’ll let you know if it works._

Hermione skimmed Tom’s books until she found one that was approximately the same size and number of pages as _The Nature of Thought_ – _Hogwarts, a History_. The enchantment she needed was much more straightforward when it was cast in isolation, and she left off the conditional statements entirely, as she wanted the _History_ to have the appearance of _The Nature of Thought_ all the time, regardless of who was looking at it or why.

She sketched the diagram into the back of the _History_ , and, feeling somewhat guilty for marking someone else’s book, quickly copied the inverted ‘ _feru_ ’, inverted ‘ _matat’_ and upright ‘ _norsk,_ ’ which marked the book as a cover-text, onto the inside of the front cover of _The Nature of Thought_. She spoke the activation, the runes glowing first red, then blue, and flipped through the book that _had_ been _Hogwarts, a History._ It seemed to have properly taken on the appearance of the book of mind magic. She spot checked a few dozen or so pages to make sure they had come across properly, and then cast the Hidden Enchantment Charm with a quick _celare_.

_Hey, Tom, guess who now owns a completely illegal but apparently accurate copy of The Nature of Thought? Complete with the last three owners’ marginalia, mind you._

Hermione could hear Tom’s mad cackling echoing throughout the Chamber. The margin notes were potentially worth almost as much as the book itself, depending on who the owners had been. _You are fucking brilliant. What book did you sacrifice?_

_ Hogwarts, a history. _

_No great loss, then. I’ll get it from the Library if I need it for anything. You’ve got plans tonight, yes?_

_Yes. The Hufflepuff party. It should be fun._

_I’ll take your word for it. If I’m not back by dinner, come find me. I’ll introduce you to <Sound of scales on wet stone>. _

_Do you know, when we do this, I don’t hear the sounds of Parsel, only the translation?_

_Probably because I don’t focus on the sounds unless I’m trying to get you to say them properly._ Hs’_!/~~|_rth’sss _._

 _Great. That_ | _is the one that’s scent-based, isn’t it? And the_ ~ _is that little tongue-flicker thing?_

 _Yes, but I’m sure she’ll understand if you just call her_ rth’sss _. She knows humans can’t speak Parsel properly, on the whole. Password for the tunnel is_ hhhrth ssiIih _, <open up>._

_Alright, but if I have to come down there, you may have to tell me again._

_Ping me._ Tom went back to his reading.

Hermione, after setting an alarm for half two, did the same.

…

Hermione had a system, for skimming large books. The first step was to flip through and get a sense for what each chapter was about, or to read the Contents, if she was lucky enough to be studying something recent enough to _have_ a Contents page. The second step was to read the introductory chapter. That was what she had been doing in McKinnon’s office. She finished it long before the alarm rang, and flipped to the chapter she had noted on the potentials of mind-healing, skimming its basic principles and methods. She was not impressed, as she read along. It seemed, unless she was gravely mistaken, that mind healing was a mish-mash of Legilimency, Occlumency, and Sympathetic Mirroring, loosely held together by a framework of good intentions. Even Flamel, two hundred years ago, had not spoken highly of it. If this was what mind healers were working from, it was a wonder they weren’t all utterly mad themselves.

Long before her alarm buzzed, she relocated to the library, demanding Madam Lyntz’ most recently published book on mind healing techniques. The librarian, more amused than offended by the girl’s tone, summoned a book published not two decades previously from the Restricted Section, handing it over with the stipulation that she was not to take it out, but must look it over in the Main Reading Room. Hermione nodded absently, her nose already buried within the pages as she made her way to the nearest table, fumbled blindly in her bag for a bit of parchment, and started taking notes, the lines of her frown deepening as she did so.

Her alarm buzzed at half two, plenty of time for her to reach Professor McKinnon’s quarters from the dungeons. She silenced it at once and looked around to see that, although Madam Lyntz was looking at her with a raised eyebrow, there was no one else in the room to notice or care about the disturbance.

“Sorry,” she stage whispered, as she returned the book to the Head Librarian’s Desk.

“Did you find what you were looking for, Ms. Granger?”

Hermione didn’t know whether it was a good thing or not that the Librarian already knew her name. “No,” she said, rather miffed. “It appears there’s been nothing but the most minor developments in Mind Healing methods since at least the 1750s, and if I’m understanding it correctly, it’s a wonder there are _any_ sane Mind Healers at all.”

The Librarian’s shoulders shook in silent laughter, and she smiled thinly. “There are those who would say that there aren’t any. The burn-out rate is 95.7% in the first three years, you know.”

“What about Professor McKinnon?”

“He would likely be the first to warn you, if you are thinking of a career in mental healing. There is a reason he left the profession, and it’s the same as every other former mind-healer’s.”

“Absolutely bloody mental, the lot of them.”

The Librarian laughed again, and whispered, “You didn’t hear it from me,” with a wink.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Thank you, Madam Lyntz. I’ve got to go, I’m going to be late.”

“Of course, Ms. Granger. And call me Margolotta. Most everybody does.”

Hermione was fairly certain no one called the pale, aristocratic woman _just_ Margolotta. “Then I am Hermione, of course.”

“Miss Hermione,” the Librarian said with a nod, and the hint of a smile.

“Lady Margolotta,” Hermione returned with a bob of her own. Then she fled, thinking that this had to be the strangest interaction she had ever had in a library.

Margolotta grinned as the bushy-haired bookworm fled the library. She hadn’t noticed in her fervent note-taking, but the Librarian had peered over her shoulder more than once, and been most interested to see that she was comparing the Charington book to what appeared to be a glamor-based palimpsest of _Hogwarts, a History_ and Perenelle Flamel’s major treatise on mind magic. An interesting spell, to be sure, and an interesting girl, to have such a thing in her possession. The second time she had checked on the girl, she was adding what appeared to be an absolutely scathing margin-note to what, if she was not mistaken, appeared to be John McKinnon’s copy of _The Nature of Thought_ , in the section on Mind Healing. There were only two (and a half, now, apparently) in the castle, and she knew that her copy was safe in the recesses of the Restricted Section.

She had heard about the girl at the Staff Meeting, of course, but she hadn’t quite believed Dumbledore when he said that she was a wild card. A Slytherin, to be sure, and she had noticed that the girl was indeed in the company of Tom Riddle most times she had appeared in the library (though Margolotta didn’t _really_ hold that against her. Despite Tom’s continual efforts to flout library policy, it was clear he loved books and learning as much as any Raven she’d ever met.), but until this visit there had been nothing _truly_ unusual or interesting about the girl. Now… Well… Margolotta thought that the polite, bookish girl might indeed be someone to watch.


	53. Part 3: Touring the Defenses

7 September 1940

John McKinnon’s alarm woke him at quarter ‘til three, just in time for him to walk around a bit and try to look like he hadn’t been sleeping in a chair for the better part of four hours before Hermione returned. His neck was stiff, but his head was, thankfully, clear, and entirely John McKinnon.

He summoned an elf to bring him a sandwich and a glass of water, and took a turn around his office while he waited, wondering what he had been thinking, letting Hermione Granger, of all people, borrow his copy of _The Nature of Thought_. He knew, obviously, that he had been thinking she would never understand half of it, but having sorted through her memories, even just the ones she had seen fit to share with him, he revised that line of thinking. If the “psychology” texts he now had memories of were her standard fare, she most definitely _would_ understand Flamel. Perenelle’s prose was very accessible. Much more so than some of those German fellows the girl had obviously read and been applying.

He was halfway through his sandwich when Hermione knocked. He bid her enter, and she took a seat, sliding the book back onto the desk, as she had when he’d woken up earlier. She looked troubled.

“Something wrong?”

“Just an odd interaction with Lady Margolotta,” the girl said. “It’s nothing, I’m sure.”

 _Lady Margolotta_ , is it? “Did she tell you to call her that?”

The girl looked up, startled. “Yes. Well, actually, she said everyone calls her Margolotta, and I ought to as well, but I think that’s not _quite_ true. I couldn’t possibly. Especially since she was calling me _Miss_ Hermione.”

John’s eyebrows almost vanished into his hairline. The girl was correct in thinking that _no one_ called the Lady of the Library by _only_ her first name, and so far as he knew, only a handful of students had been invited to call her _Lady Margolotta_ , most of them post-OWL Ravenclaws. Most of those who tried it without invite were swiftly disabused of their library privileges. “Did she by any chance see what you were reading?”

Hermione thought for a moment. She had been in the Main Reading Room, and she hadn’t been keeping an eye on the librarian. “It’s possible,” she allowed with a shrug.

 _Great_ , thought John, brushing the last crumbs of his sandwich from his fingers. _The Lady’s going to kill me for giving restricted literature to a fourth-year_. 

“She did let me have Charington’s book on Mind Healing from the Restricted Section, though, and Sedgwick says she’ll let us take out the basic first-aid texts, so I think you’re probably safe.” Hermione grinned. She didn’t think the Librarian thought much of the Restricted Section, as a concept.

“Wait, you knew that _The Nature of Thought_ is restricted?”

“Of course. It’s nearly impossible to get a copy, even on the black market. I thought you knew I knew. Was that shot about me being more Slytherin than anyone but Tom and Turner just a stab in the dark?”

“No, it was a shot at your making an oath as a Gryffindor.”

“Oh. Well, I’m just as much a Gryffindor as I am a Slytherin. And I didn’t try to obliviate anyone anyway.”

“What _did_ you do?”

“I tried to make a copy of it, and found that there’s a nifty little copyright protection ward on it. _Then_ ,” she continued, before he could say anything about her trying to make illegal copies of restricted literature, “I read the chapter on Mind Healing, and absolutely _had_ to go see if _that_ was the actual basis of modern Mind Healing,” the girl gave him a hard stare.

“Hence the Charington book?” He winced as he thought about the contents of that particular text. The Charington book was the most recent reading on the required list for prospective Mind Healers, and included extensive discussions about the side effects of mental healing for the Healers themselves. It was a disturbing read.

“Yes.” She stared at him a bit longer. John was starting to get uncomfortable.

“You,” the girl announced abruptly, “Are absolutely mad if you think I’m going to let you try to solve my problems by fucking up your own head until it matches mine, using sympathetic magic to link us together, and then trying your damnedest to undo the pathological parts before they drive you round the bend. I’m surprised you’re not completely insane already, in multiple ways. You did this for _five years_? How many personalities have you _got_ at this point?”

John gave the girl a wan smile. It seemed she did have a grasp of the basic principle of the magics used for Mind Healing. “It’s just me, now. At most we were fifteen, sixteen active personalities? And most of them _were_ insane. Perhaps another twenty or so that were sane and quiet. I managed to hide it for almost a year, kept practicing. It was probably the worst thing I could have done. It took a bit more than a year to get everything sorted out. I… had a lot of help, creating thought constructs and moving them into different objects. What finally worked was a variation on a Soul Jar Ritual, and the enchantments used for a pensieve. Each personality now lives in a different object. It was… a bad time in my life. Perenelle was a lifesaver, honestly.” Maybe, John thought, the girl would take the bait and ask about Perenelle rather than his stability.

Hermione froze. She couldn’t believe he had just outright _told_ her all that. _She_ wasn’t under any sort of vow of secrecy.

“Are you telling me,” she said slowly, looking at her hands in her lap, “that you have thirty-odd horcruxes lying about?”

John winced. He had forgotten, in his examination of the more recent memories, that the girl knew about Soul Jars. What _had_ Dumbledore been thinking? _Stupid question, John, he was thinking the same thing you were when you let her take The Nature of Thought._ “No. Not horcruxes. They’re not soul fragments, just mind fragments, and my mind was already shattered, so there was no need for a sacrifice to rend it to pieces. They wouldn’t save me from death. If I died, I imagine they would vanish, or maybe that they would become a collection of objects haunted by different ghosts that are not-quite-me. That’s all.”

“Regardless,” the girl said, stubbornly on point, “You will not help me in that way. If that is the help you intend, I will refuse your treatment, and never speak to you outside of class again. It’s not healthy, and it’s not right.”

Another wan smile. “I can live with that. In fact, I’ve looked through the memories you gave me, and, unless you’re hiding something extraordinarily twisted extraordinarily well, it wouldn’t help you anyway. You’re not pathological, just highly stressed and, shall we say… extremely well-compartmentalized. We’ll need to try to relieve some of that stress before it starts to do damage, but for now, reorganizing your mind would be counterproductive. It’s already far more organized than most I’ve seen. I’ll listen to you, if you need someone to talk to. I can try to council you on how to deal with Tom and Bellatrix. I can teach you basic Occlumency so you and Tom can maintain your separate identities.

“That one’s key, I think,” he pointed out, “since it’s more or less what you don’t want me to do, and I from what I’ve seen of Tom, you don’t want to share his particular brand of insanity. Do you even realize how much time you spend in one another’s head? This past week it’s been at least an hour a day, on average. That’s twice as much as a qualified Mind Healer would do, even for the most desperate cases.”

“More than half of that was after Dumbledore wrecked his memories,” Hermione pointed out.

“You’ve been spending more and more time sharing mind-space as the week’s gone on,” John countered, raising an eyebrow, “And that’s just what you showed me. I know you edited. There’s no way that memory stream was unconscious.”

Hermione flushed. “I just wanted you to believe me.”

John sighed. “I do, Hermione. And I’m willing to help. And nothing I do will endanger my own health, I promise. So we’ll start with Occlumency, the kind Mind Healers learn, against internal and external influences. And then Divination, since that’s what you came here to learn in the first place, yes? And once we’ve got you sorted, we’ll work on everything else. One all-consuming mental project at a time. Sound good?”

“Okay.” Hermione assented in a soft voice.

“Right. Let’s start, then. Would I be correct in thinking that you pulled me into your mind last time, like you pull Tom into your head to let him see through your eyes?”

“Yes, kind of. Normally we only drift around in the surface thoughts, though. I don’t think either of us has ever gone inside the other’s memory structure.”

“Well, I don’t think I rightly did either. I think you caught me with a torrent of memories in your surface thoughts, by thinking specifically of those memories and their associated memories. _This_ time, I want you to keep your mind mostly blank. Don’t try to pull me in, when you feel my mind on the edges of yours. If you can, in fact, it might be worth it to try keeping me out, so we can see how your external shields look at the moment. But I need to be able to see your entire mindscape, which means _not_ flooding me with an infodump, yes?”

“I think I can do that.” The girl smiled and met his eyes.

“Don’t be afraid when your shields fall. It’s normal to feel very vulnerable at that point. It can be an unpleasant sensation. But it will hurt more if you try to throw me out once I’m already past your shields, especially since you don’t yet have any training in getting the sort of leverage you need to separate your mind from someone else’s. If you want me to stop, close your eyes, or think “Get out” at me, as hard as you can, okay?”

“Don’t worry, Professor McKinnon. I’ll be fine. I’ve been fooling around with this stuff all week. You can hardly be more invasive than Tom.”

“He hasn’t actually tried anything very invasive, you know, from what you showed me. But no, I won’t be trying anything much more than that, at least for this first time. If you’re ready, then?” she nodded again, still meeting his eyes. “ _Legilimens._ ”

John found himself on the edges of Hermione’s mind. Her natural shield was flexible and quite thin, but supplemented by several layers of what appeared to be somewhat misapplied elementary diversions of obscurity and misdirection, probably something out of that Occlumency primer she had read; a sparkling barrier of gold and green sparks, probably a product of the blood bonding with Tom; and quite surprisingly, a net of miniscule, finely detailed ward-runes. He would bet good money that the ward-net was one of Tom’s defenses, which had extended over Hermione when their minds were joined. It was the most sophisticated of the shield-layers, but it had been built for Tom’s mind, not Hermione’s, and there were gaps where her natural shields were exposed. He slipped through one of these gaps and punctured the natural shield, ignoring the obscurity and misdirection fields.

When he entered the mind-scape, he called out a greeting. More organized minds could often speak to legilimencers. _Hello, Hermione, can you hear me?_

 _Yes, of course, professor McKinnon. Where are you?_ Hermione materialized an avatar for herself, which was floating lightly in the space, exactly as she had looked in his office.

He grinned to himself. It wasn’t often that someone’s ideal avatar was of their actual physical appearance. He pulled his presence together in a semblance of his twenty-year-old self. _Nice avatar. Do you want to be fifteen forever?_

_No, of course not. But this is what I look like._

_You don’t have to._

_I know I don’t. I could look like a dragon if I wanted to. But I don’t._ The avatar shrugged. _This is fine. Do you want to be, what, twenty, forever?_

John laughed. _It was a good time in my life. Care to show me around, since you’re here?_

_I suppose I could. Though I can’t say I’ve ever really spent much time looking at my mind from this side. It’s rather odd, isn’t it? Though I suppose this is how neural networks are commonly described in the literature…_

John looked at the mind-scape in front of him. It _was_ rather odd, a collection of light nodes in different colors, rays or fibers connecting them to each other, some glowing more brightly than others, sparkling as thoughts raced through the network, drawn from the interconnection of thoughts and experiences.

_What’s that dim region over there?_

The dim region lit up for a split second as Hermione recognized it. _My experiences from before July. I’m trying not to think about them much._

John’s avatar nodded. _It’s such a small section. What’s the rest of this?_

 _This section_ , she waved, and a series of nodes glowed white _, is experiences since July. The rest of it is… referential knowledge, I suppose. Things I’ve read in books, but not experienced, but that still apply to my life. That nearly detached section over there_ she waved again _is old knowledge that I might reference sometimes, but haven’t used in ages – half-forgotten stuff._

John was impressed. The ratio of referential to experiential knowledge was at least ten to one, and so ridiculously well-integrated that he could not have picked out for himself where the division was. _I see. Where is your body, from here?_

Hermione’s avatar looked at him questioningly. _Anywhere, I suppose. It’s not a matter of physical space, is it? I mean, I just have to turn my attention externally, and I’ll be looking out, from anywhere in this space. _

John thought he understood. Most people had a defined path between their thoughts and physical senses, but Hermione probably spent as much if not more time referencing the massive network of book knowledge as she did using her physical senses, so she simply had to pay conscious attention to one or the other in order to return to her body. _And how would you get to Tom’s mind? Can I follow you there?_

 _I don’t know. You can try. It’s this way._ She grabbed his avatar by the hand, and dragged it along with her own to the far reaches of her consciousness.

_What just happened?_

_I don’t know. We needed to be here, and it’s my mind. So we’re here... Sorry. That was kind of a Tom-ish explanation. I’ll think about it and get back to you._

John chuckled. It was a more reasonable explanation than any of his other patients would have offered, even if it was somewhat lacking in precision. _Let’s try another question – where is here?_

 _At the edge of my mind. The border with Tom’s mind. If I turn “outward” here, I’ll see through my eyes. Once we cross the line, _she waved her avatar’s hand, and a golden barrier appeared in the midst of an otherwise indistinguishable landscape of directionless non-color, _if I turn “outward” I’ll see through Tom’s eyes, and he’ll be able to hear us talking._

John found this somewhat disturbing. He had thought that perhaps there would be a tunnel, or bridge or some other connection between the two minds, but their surface-thought space seemed to meld together almost seamlessly.

_Do you mind if we cross over?_

_No. I suppose if Tom does, he’ll kick you out._

She pulled his avatar through the golden plane distinguishing the two spaces.

_Hermione? I thought you were going to see McKinnon._

_I did. I’ve brought him with me. He’s touring the defenses, as it were._

_Why can’t I sense him?_

_I don’t know._

_It’s probably because you’re touching me. Let go of my hand._

_Oh! That’s odd. Hello, John._ Tom’s voice was disembodied.

_Tom! You can’t just call him John! He’s a professor!_

_But he’s a cool professor, right John?_

John made his avatar roll its eyes. _Tom can call me whatever he likes. I am a guest in his mind, after all._

 _Where’s your avatar, Tom?_ Hermione asked.

A silver viper solidified out of the aether _. Why does it matter? I’m still going to be speaking to you mind-to-mind._

_Because I like to have something to look at while I’m talking._

John changed the subject. _What do you know about mind-magics, Tom?_

_Well, I set up a ward-net around my thoughts last year, something I came across in, oh what book was it? Candleglass’ book on mind magic and wardscapes, I think. Or Corkingtower’s, maybe. I was looking into warding, not mind magic, specifically, but it seemed interesting, so I gave it a shot. Obviously it doesn’t keep out Hermione, or anyone she chooses to bring in. I’ll have to look into that._

_It’s extended around Hermione’s mind as well, now._ John put in. _But it’s not tuned to the shape of her mind, so it’s not as effective._

_That may explain how Dumbledore’s been getting in._

_He’s read you more than once this week?_

_Hermione told you about Sunday? He tried, the first Transfiguration lesson, as well. I showed up like this and tried to take a bite out of him, and he backed off quickly enough. Didn’t see anything. Soooo… mind magics. I’ve read the same books Hermione has. I’ve got a handle on my memory structure since Sunday._ The snake twisted, and the structure John had seen in Hermione’s memories appeared. It was, he thought, the most convoluted memory palace he had ever seen, traditionally architectural, but twisted into fantastical shapes, completely ignoring the conventions of real-world physics. It gave John a headache just imagining trying to navigate it. _I can move it around so it’s hard for an invader to find it. That’s about it. And of course I can do the Parsel mind-meld thing._ The snake radiated smugness.

 _Parsel mind-meld thing?_ Hermione asked.

_It’s what I’ve just been reading about. You’re not the only one who studies on their day off. One second._

A willowy, humanoid figure appeared, vaguely feminine in shape, but covered in scales, rather than skin.

_This is <sound of scales on wet stone>. _

_< Speaker, why have you tied my consciousness to this form?> _The basilisk’s voice was surprisingly melodious, at least in Tom’s mind.

_< You don’t think it’s funny, that I’m a snake, and you’re a human… more or less?>_

_< I do not.>_

Tom sighed _. <Fine.>_

Their forms shimmered, and Tom’s snake was replaced by his usual form, but sitting cross-legged in mid-air and wearing muggle clothes. The snake-woman took the form of a silver python, wrapped around him, with her head on his shoulder.

_< Better?>_

_< It is not my usual majestic form, but it will do, I suppose.>_

_< It is more to our scale. I could make you a tiny basilisk, but that would be insulting, would it not?>_

( _Basilisk?_ ) John thought to himself. ( _Tom Riddle has access to a  basilisk? The world is coming to an end, I know it._)

_< It would.>_

_< I do not wish to insult you.> _Tom said simply.

_< As well you should not. So. Humans. I am sound-of-scales-on-wet-stone. Here, I gather, we will understand each other whether or not you speak properly. How are you called?>_

_Hermione._ Hermione said, looking at the basilisk with distinct interest.

 _< Heart-sister> _Tom translated, giving the great serpent Hermione’s relationship to him in Parsel. The girl grinned.

_< And you?>_

_John._ John looked like he was _most definitely_ in over his head.

 _< Teacher of mind magic>_ clarified Tom. _Human names don’t really mean much, in Parsel._

 _Would you know me, if I were to visit the Chamber?_ Hermione asked the basilisk.

_< I hardly get much company. I shall assume that if my Speaker allows a young human female in to visit, that you are she.>_

_< It’s probably a safe assumption. If I bring more than one down, I will be sure to be there to introduce them, regardless.>_

_What, are you going to invite Bellatrix down?_

_< Warrior-lady-child of the star-people clan> _Tom translated. _Apparently the Blacks are well-known._

Hermione ignored this aside. _I look forward to the meeting <great one>._

 _< You didn’t tell me she speaks!> _The basilisk bumped her avatar’s head against Tom’s.

_Unfortunately my tongue is clumsy, my lady. I have learned a few words, but most of them I cannot say, save in my mind._

_< But I appreciate the effort and the attempt, heart-sister of my Speaker! It has been too long since anyone has spoken with me, and now there are two,> _the basilisk uncoiled herself from Tom’s avatar and wrapped herself around Hermione’s instead. _< We shall learn to speak to one another, I think. You do share a mind with my Speaker, after all.>_

_How can you tell?_

_< You taste the same, around the edges,> _the basilisk said, flicking the nose of Hermione’s avatar with her tongue.

 _This is absolutely fascinating_ , John interrupted, _but unfortunately I believe it is nearly time for Hermione and myself to go._

_Is it dinner already?_

_Yes, the alarm I set is ringing._

_Okay. We should head back, then. I’ll come fetch Tom shortly, my lady, and meet you in person._ The snake nodded, and moved back to Tom, who was beaming, apparently pleased that his sister and his new friend were getting on so well.

 _Come on, professor._ She grabbed his hand. _See you soon, Tom._ He waved.

Hermione pulled herself and John back to her mind and body, then released him so that he could find his way out. She really had no idea how to kick him out, if she had wanted to. She turned her attention to her senses again, and found herself facing the professor across his desk. She blinked and slouched back into her chair, as John came back to himself as well.

She grinned at him across the expanse of dark wood. “I think that went well, don’t you?”

For the second time that day, John found himself laughing uncontrollably. “No. No, I really don’t. Your shields are a mess, there’s no apparent distinction between your mindscape and Tom’s, and I’ve just spent two hours talking to a time traveler, a sadist, and a _basilisk_. It’s like a bad joke. If you want to keep Tom out of your head, you’d have to solidify that line you outlined for me between your mind-spaces, and it would require constant maintenance – that’s how integrated you two have managed to become. Nine Hells! The basilisk thought you were enough the same person to learn to speak to her through that mind-meld thing. And integrating your minds has apparently weakened Tom’s shields as well, by the way, which means he’ll have to re-tune that net if he wants it to be effective, and you’ll probably _both_ have to study Occlumency for it to be effective for _either_ of you, and – what are you doing?”

Hermione was scribbling something in her dayplanner. “Sorry, professor. Just taking notes.”

“While you’ve got that open, pencil in a meeting every Saturday morning from now until forever. I expect that’s about how long it will take to fix this mess. I’d say the only good thing we established today is that your memory constructions are still independent.”

“Thank you, Professor.”

John rolled his eyes. “I’m absolutely serious about that. For all we know, this could be progressive. And for the love Light, call me John. Our priority for next week is going to have to be seeking out yours and Tom’s motivations behind that blood bond, so warn him that I’ll need to do some digging in his mind, too…”

“Thanks, John.” Hermione grinned. “It won’t be so bad, you’ll see. I’m a quick study, and it’s not like I haven’t got incentives to make this work. And I’m pretty sure Tom doesn’t want our memories or personalities melding any more than you or I do, so he’ll probably cooperate.”

“Still doesn’t mean I want to dig around in his memories,” John grumbled.

“If it’s any consolation, I think he can probably keep you away from the more disturbing ones, if you ask him to. You are doing us a favor, after all. The least he can do is not drive you nuts while you do it. Again. Check your margins, by the way. I’ve left some comments, since no one’s updated the notes for about fifty years.” She winked cheekily at him, and closed the door quietly behind her as John flipped rapidly through his copy of _The Nature of Thought_.

In the pages describing Mind Healing, there was a new, scathing tirade in tiny, precise block capitals, including references not only to the Charington book, but also to what had to be several muggle texts, which would not be written for another twenty to forty years. The overall gist was that Mind Healing was an idiotic art, man’s greatest display of hubris, and that those who would attempt it were no better than the worst they would try to heal. Being only human gave them understanding for their subjects, but no distance for perspective, and the attempt in itself was a hollow one, doomed to failure. He considered for a moment erasing it, but instead labeled it – Hermione Jean Granger, age 14. Perhaps when she graduated, he would pull it out, and see what she thought of her assessment when she’d had a few more years’ perspective herself.

In any case, it should be of interest to future scholars, should any of the muggle texts ever get written. Otherwise, he presumed, most of them would think it was a joke.

John stretched, and decided abruptly that, no matter how much he wanted another nap after that hellish excursion, he really ought to eat a proper dinner, and so he made his way down to the Great Hall, wondering idly how long it would take Hermione to drag Tom away from the Chamber of Secrets, where ever it was. _Some days, the gods must just look down at us and laugh and laugh_ , he thought as he descended the Great Staircase _, the cruel bastards_.


	54. Part 3: A Strange Juxtaposition

7 September 1940

Hermione found her way into the Chamber of Secrets readily enough. It had taken her several tries to pronounce the password correctly, but she had managed it, and made the steep descent into the Chamber Passage. Harry had told her that it was a great stone slide, but instead there was a long, twisting flight of stairs, with passages leading off to the sides at odd angles from tiny landings, to various plumbing fixtures, she supposed.

The passage was damp, and smelled of mold and decay, probably from leaks in the plumbing, which had apparently been rather hastily modified when the entryway was moved to the second-floor loo. As she made her way down the tunnel, the smell of decay faded and was replaced by an overwhelming smell of snake, like walking into the reptile house at a zoo, dry and musty. She eventually reached a pair of massive stone pillars, flanking a door which had been built on a grand scale, like the entry to an ancient temple of some sort. The pillars were carved with incredibly realistic serpent reliefs, each snake with a pair of winking emerald eyes. The first reflected glint from her wand-light made her jump, until she realized that they weren’t actually alive or moving. It was terribly impressive.

Once again, it took several tries to pronounce the password, though more from intimidation and her fear of what might lie on the other side than her incompetence with the language.

The main entryway of the Chamber of Secrets was a continuation of the temple theme, lined with pillars, a great statue of Salazar Slytherin dominating the space from the far end, like Athena in her temple on the Acropolis, though not gilded. Hermione wondered if he had made it himself, or if it was an addition by one of his Heirs. It was lit by a series of magical lamps, glowing softly like torches along the walls, the light subtly changing every few seconds to give the impression that the snake-reliefs, carved into these pillars as well, were moving. The acoustics were awful, she thought, hearing her soft footsteps echo throughout the space.

“Tom, where are you?”

“In the library, behind the statue! Hold on, we’ll come out.” This was followed by a series of rapid hissing noises, and the sounds of something massive moving over the stones. She squeezed her eyes closed and tried not to remember the last time she had come into contact with this particular creature.

She had a sense that the great serpent had stopped in front of her, a huge, solid mass raising itself up between herself and the light of the torches, perhaps, or, a shift in the subtle movement of air in the Chamber. She didn’t know. She was far too on edge for this. She heard a quick series of hisses, and Tom laughed.

“You can open your eyes, Hermione. She’s closed hers.”

Hermione did so, still careful not to look directly at the basilisk’s eyes, regardless of whether they were closed, frozen in place by waves of cold fear. It was, she thought, strangely like talking to Dumbledore, with the added knowledge that she could be killed at any moment. All she remembered from the first time she had encountered the great serpent was glowing yellow eyes in a darkened corridor. The snake before her was massive, its blunt-nosed head nearly two feet across, and perhaps fifty feet long. Harry had described her as a poisonous green color, but Hermione thought that perhaps she had just shed her skin, when Harry saw her, because the snake in front of her was a much darker green – almost black. The basilisk flicked her tongue out in Hermione’s direction and hissed something at Tom.

“She says to tell you that it is an honor that you are so impressed by her proper form, but she hopes you are not too afraid to greet her,” he translated. “Where’s your Gryffindor courage, Cia?” he added teasingly.

“Excuse me, Mr. I Can Talk to Snakes, but the last time I ran into a basilisk, I was petrified for a month!” Hermione snapped without thinking, then froze again.

“Reeeeally?” He drew the word out. “When did _you_ meet a basilisk? Why didn’t you tell me before? What are you hiding from me, Hermione?” His tone was curious, but there was an edge of anger there as well.

“I really shouldn’t tell you.”

“Is it something to do with me, in the future? My future?”

“It’s something that, if I explain it now, will possibly completely derail the future in a way that makes things even worse than my old timeline, and you _know_ I’m trying to avoid that. Just, please, Tom, trust me on this. I can’t tell you, yet. Someday, I think I will be able to, but certain things have to happen first, and they haven’t yet.”

Tom made a face at her, but let it go. “Fine.”

Hermione smiled in relief and turned her attention to the basilisk as he continued grumbling, something about how this must be what it’s like to live with a gods-cursed Seer. She carefully pronounced the words of greeting she had rehearsed with Tom: “*\’Ssh, rth’sss,” and bowed low to the enormous snake, thinking that it was probably worth it to show her respect even if the snake’s eyes were closed. For all she knew, Tom was still maintaining the Parsel mind-meld thing, and the basilisk could see Hermione through Tom’s eyes. The serpent hissed and coughed softly, this time something with chirps and trills.

“She says you speak well, for a human who does not have the gift, and returns the greeting, with respect.”

“Please tell her that it is an honor to meet her, and I am sorry for my haste, but that we must return to the Castle, lest our absence at the evening meal be noted.”

“Do you know you’re overly formal when you’re nervous?”

“Shut up, Tom.” He passed along the message, and exchanged an extended series of hisses and with the basilisk, who then raised her head to butt it against Tom’s, much like she had in mental construct form, and flicked her tongue at Hermione.

“She says farewell, and that she hopes to speak with you soon. I returned the sentiment for you, already.” The two teenagers turned to leave with little ceremony, and Tom kept up a steady stream of excited chatter as they made their way back to the second floor. “She likes you, you know. You needn’t be afraid of her. She was so excited at the idea of having people to talk to, it was almost overwhelming at first. Well, at first she was really sleepy, just coming out of hibernation, but once she realized I was the latest heir, very excited. And I don’t think you could tell, when we were in my head, but she was just as excited at the thought of having you to talk to as well. I don’t know if she thinks she can manage to get into your head from mine, or if she thinks the notes for the Parsel Curse are somewhere in the library and wants us to just go all the way and use that on you.

“It’s huge, the library. You’ll love it. All kinds of stuff on Parsel, Dark Arts, Wardcrafting, magical engineering and construction. I found the original sketches for the Castle and its wards. I think it might be self-repairing and kind of… sentient might be too strong a word. But at least a bit aware. I think I know how the Slytherin dorms work, at least. I might be able to get us that potions lab this weekend, after all. It’s not organized, though, the library, and I couldn’t find any sort of inventory or anything. You’ll have to help me catalogue everything. I know you want to, I saw you perk up when I started talking about books. And it’s not all from Slytherin’s time, either. His heirs must have kept it up over the centuries. This is going to be _brilliant_ , Cia!”

He stopped talking as they made the steep ascent to the girls’ loo, apparently out of breath, and sent Hermione out first to make sure the coast was clear.

His last comment, before they reached the Great Hall and other people, was that the next thing he would do would be to move the damn entrance. There was no call for having eleven flights of stairs (seven up and four down) between the Chamber and the Common Room, or for hiding the entrance in a girls’ restroom, of all places.

…

Most students, unsurprisingly, were already eating when they arrived to dinner. John and Dumbledore looked up as they entered the hall, as did the other fourth-year Slytherins and Bellatrix, but no one else seemed to notice or care about their late entrance.

The latecomers fell into what Hermione was quickly coming to think of as their usual seats, and listened to the other boys talk. They had spent the morning at the Quidditch try-outs. Hermione had not clearly understood before, but was somehow not surprised to learn, that the different house teams had different try-out requirements. The Slytherin team made all players except the Captain re-apply for their positions each year (as they wanted the best players possible), but the boys thought it unlikely that any of the previous year’s players would be replaced – the only real opening was for a single Chaser position, whose previous occupant had graduated. All three had made an attempt, though Leo and Edmond freely admitted that neither of them actually stood a chance of getting it.

Scorpius, on the other hand, had made it through the morning rounds, where the captains from all four Houses had weeded out everyone who wasn’t suitable for any position, and had been called back for the afternoon trials, where they would see how well he worked with the rest of the team. Only two others had been called back: a fifth-year, Claude Prince, and second-year Gwaine Yaxley.

The main topic of dinner conversation, therefore, was whether Scorpius stood a chance of actually making the team. Yaxley, they admitted, had been a good flier, but didn’t have the upper body strength for the position. Leo thought he might make a good seeker, but the others pointed out that he would never take the position from Aradia Prewett, who was, in Edmond’s words, a cut-throat bitch as well as the best Seeker Hogwarts had seen in twenty years.

Prince, on the other hand, was good friends with Chauncey and Reese David, the current brother-sister chaser duo, which would give him a leg up in the decision making-process, and on top of that he and Scorpius had been well-matched in their flying and scoring abilities. Word had it that Maris had just barely beaten Prince for the position two years previously, the last time a chaser position had been open. Scorpius was fairly sure that Reese, Chauncey, and the beaters, Carrow and Goyle, would be pulling for Prince.

Eventually, Hermione tired of listening to Scorpius whine (he sounded awfully like Draco when he whined. It was uncanny), and changed the subject. “Are you lot going to the Hufflepuff party?” she asked the other Slytherins.

Tom, who had been reading a thin leather-bound book and masterfully ignoring the sports-talk, looked up just long enough to raise an eyebrow at her. Stupid question, really.

Leo shrugged. “We might come for a bit,” added Scorpius.

“It’s open to everyone,” Edmond explained, “But generally only the youngest Slytherins go, and the prefects.”

“Why?”

The boys exchanged an uncomfortable look before Scorpius spoke. “Alright, I like you, so here’s the truth: Most of the upperclassmen are alright, but the Gryffindors tend to be right prats, especially once they’ve had a few drinks. Pope, Yaxley, and Weasley have apparently got it in their heads that any Snake’s a target after ten. They send the firsties back to the dorms at curfew, so that’s not a problem, but our second year things devolved into a melee by eleven, and that bitch Sprout decided we must have started it. Everyone who was here for that except the prefects boycotted last year entirely.”

“So the firsties and second-years are planning on going because they don’t know any better, along with the prefects, and me?”

“Like Scorp said,” Leo chimed in, “we were discussing whether we should make an appearance. As far as I know, we’re not officially boycotting it. But we’ll probably not stay too late. Did the girls invite you to their sleepover thing?”

“No, what sleepover thing?”

“Well, since there’s only eight of them, they get together fairly often. They take it in turns having sleepovers in different common rooms. I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you. Just leave before it gets too late and you’ll be fine.”

“And none of you thought to warn the second-years?” Hermione’s tone was very disapproving. Tom rather thought he heard a note of disappointment behind her insistence on staying on-subject.

Leo looked rather helplessly at his two mates. “No. It’s not like they’d listen to us anyway, the little monsters.”

“What happened to Slytherins presenting a united front?”

“That,” Malfoy drawled, “mostly refers to hexing one another in corridors. If, however, Leonard Carmichael, for example, has been a twat to me in private, I am most certainly within my rights to _not_ warn the little shits that the Terrors might, in fact, be even bigger arseholes when they’re drunk, and allow them to walk right into trouble.”

Hermione crossed her arms and glared at him for a moment, before Tom added, “Katherine Aspic is a second year as well, you know.”

“Oh, fine,” she huffed. She still thought they should warn the second-years, but it wasn’t as though any of them would listen to her – they’d been here longer than she had, after all. “I’m off to find the girls, then.”

Tom nodded absently, still reading his book.

The other three gave her a chorus of farewells.

As she walked away from the table, she heard Malfoy say again, “So Prince…”

…

Hermione spotted the fourth-year girls relatively quickly, sitting at one end of the Hufflepuff table. They appeared to be animatedly discussing their wardrobe choices for the party, which Hermione hadn’t even considered. She elected not to mention the issue of her exclusion from the sleepover. As much as it hurt not to have been invited, it wasn’t as though any of the girls had deliberately snubbed her with that information. She wouldn’t even have known if Leo hadn’t mentioned it.

As soon as she dropped onto the bench, she was greeted with an, “Ooooh! What are you wearing, tonight, Hermione?” from Aggie.

It transpired that, contrary to Hermione’s expectations, one simply could not show up to the Back to School Bash in school robes, or even casual clothes. It wasn’t, apparently, overly formal, but it was one of the five major events of the year (the others being the Halloween, the Midwinter Ball, Beltane, and the End of School Blowout), and it was the only one where it was expected that one would show off one’s skills transfiguring, charming, or otherwise modifying normal clothing into something fantastic. (Halloween, apparently, was ceremonial, whatever that meant, Midwinter was formal, the End of School Blowout was casual, and, as Lina told her through a fit of giggles, the point of Beltane was to wear nothing at all.)

Back to School was supposed to be about fun, being back with your friends and away from your oppressive parents, so the clothing was fantastic, revealing, and just a bit scandalous. In a teasing way, specified Aggie, not a whorish way.

Most of the older girls, the fourth-years explained, took muggle fashions and made them much more revealing. The illusions Tammie and Thea conjured looked somewhat like someone had taken a Victorian gown and strategically removed half the fabric. It was still less revealing than most of the muggle clothes Hermione had owned in the 1990s. Slytherins tended to be more old-fashioned (but no less scandalously revealing) than the other houses, they told her, insisting on gloves and hats and other odd bits which none of the other houses deemed terribly important (courtesy of the fact that most of their families did maintain a rather Victorian aesthetic at home, and they knew better than most what they were starting with), and Hufflepuff, which had the most muggle-born students, tended to start with the most up-to-date muggle fashions (in this case, Hermione saw, something like a 1920s flapper dress). Gryffindor tended to be a bit racier than the other houses, though seventh-years Nat Grousovich from Ravenclaw and Lettie Fortescue from Slytherin were notoriously the most daring of all. Amy said this was because they were foreign, though Thea thought they were just teasing the boys. Tammie said with a knowing look in her eye, that it wasn’t about the boys at all – they were actually teasing each other, and the whole group cracked up. Most of the other illusions the girls cycled through seemed to be variations on Edwardian gowns, no bustles, long lines, and the corsets were apparently optional.

Hermione thought it over carefully before conjuring her own illusion: a sleeveless corseted top, mostly green, with touches of black and silver, and long, very full black trousers with green and silver embroidery around the hem. These belled out at mid-calf, which gave the appearance of Edwardian lines, but would allow her more freedom of movement than an actual dress or robes, and she had a feeling that a girl wearing trousers of any sort would be “scandalous” in this time period. She added her knee-high black leather boots (raising their heel an inch or two), elbow-length gloves that matched the trousers, and a tiny black and silver hat, as an accent. Finally, she added a black duster with silver embroidery, which reached the back of illusion-Hermione’s knees, and fastened below the bust, highlighting her chest to good effect and leaving her arms bare from elbow to shoulder.

Amy said it looked like a really fancy dueling outfit, but overall other girls were very impressed with the idea, and suggested several small changes to the details. Anamaria, who was openly acknowledged as the best student in their year with beauty spells, charmed Hermione’s hair into submission, and they sent her off to change and meet them at the entrance to the Hufflepuff Common Room in an hour.

She did as she was told, showing off her outfit to Tom before she left her room (he was apparently using it this evening while he worked on re-arranging the foundations of the school – a project she diligently avoided thinking about). He said she looked lovely, but didn’t quite match, and added a glamour to color her hair black and her eyes bright-green before she left.

She peeked at his handiwork on her way out of her hall, and almost started crying: she could have been Harry’s older sister. She dashed the tears away before making her way up to the Hufflepuff Commons – tonight was _not_ meant for angst and sorrow, or blood magic or torture! She was going to have fun if her life depended on it, and not think, for once, about the great (and mostly terrible) adventure that her life had become.


	55. Part 3: Saturday Night Lights

7-8 September 1940

Hermione arrived at the entrance to the Hufflepuff Common room at a quarter past eight, feeling more than a little out of place in her transfigured robes. No one else was wearing anything quite like it, though, to be fair, no one was wearing anything quite like _anything_ she had ever seen any of them wear. The illusions the other fourth-years had conjured had not done justice to the imaginations of the upper-year Ravenclaws and Gryffindors who were just arriving. It was like something out of a fairy-tale, she thought – one girl was wearing a Victorian gown that stopped above her knees in front and appeared to be made entirely of feathers; two others were wearing nothing but magically fluttering scraps of silk and some kind of metal lattice; one of the older boys, a Slytherin, by the trim on his hat, had enchanted his walking-stick to create a shimmer of light that raced over his suit every time he took a step, and his date was dressed in what could only be described as a captive waterfall. A first-year Hufflepuff was standing by to hold the door open, but the others appeared to be more interested in milling around the corridor than making their way to the dance floor, or whatever the Hufflepuffs had set up.  She spotted Thea, Tammie, Lina, and Aggie standing near one of the alcoves in the hall and made her way over to them.

Aggie saw her first, and whistled in false appreciation. The others laughed, and she called out, “Hey, I almost didn’t recognize you, with the glamours and whatnot!”

“You clean up well, Hermione!” added Lina.

Hermione laughed herself. “You needn’t sound so surprised, Lina!”

“I like the glamour. It’s a nice touch,” said Tammie, who had charmed her own hair a startling pink. It clashed slightly with her red and purple robes, but Hermione thought it suited her, overall.

She rolled her eyes. “It was Tom’s idea. He said I didn’t match with all the brown. I do wonder about that boy sometimes. Honestly.”

The girls tittered and sniggered for a moment, until Aggie asked if Tom was coming. Hermione said that he was not, and when Tammie asked why, explained that he didn’t like people, crowds, dancing, or anything that required him to act like a normal human being.

“So Slytherin’s not boycotting this year again?” asked Thea. She looked almost disappointed at this.

“No. But your brother and his friends hadn’t decided at dinner whether they were going to come or not. Do you two not get on? He never mentions you.”

“That’s one way to put it, I suppose. Another would be that he’s a bit of an idiot and more than a bit of a spoiled brat. Mummy and father put him first because he’s a boy, and he doesn’t seem to think there was a damn thing wrong with that. We haven’t really gotten on for years. It’s fine. It’s a big party. I can avoid them if I have to. It’s not like I don’t do the same every day in class.”

“Or you can ask Art Yaxley to hex him for you,” suggested Lina. “He’s been making eyes at you from across the hall – Don’t _look_!” Everyone but Thea laughed at this.

The Malfoy girl pouted prettily at them, and pointed out that if it came to that, she _could_ just hex Scorpius herself, and damn the consequences.

“But then,” Lina pointed out, as though this was the most obvious thing in the world, “You wouldn’t have any excuse to talk to Mr. Yaxley. And that would be a damn shame.”

This, Hermione thought, is exactly what I needed – a night of frivolous talk about boys and clothes and maybe a bit of dancing, and a few hours with no responsibilities.

Thea snorted. “Come on, girls, it looks like the crowd’s thinning out. They must have fixed their problem with the seating arrangements.”

“Oh, was there a reason we were all standing around? I thought we were just mingling or something.”

“No, I forget you’re new here. Usually we’d just go in, but they asked us to wait, because the girl who used to do the couches and so on graduated, and her replacement’s just not as good. He filled the entire dance floor with wooden folding chairs, and they were having trouble banishing them back to wherever he found them,” Aggie explained.

“Oh.” Hermione could think of nothing else to say about this, but thankfully Thea stepped in.

“Come on, Hermione. I’ll introduce you around to the upperclassmen you won’t have met yet. Anyone else want to come?”

Aggie and Lina decided to accompany them, while Tammie went to find Lily. According to Thea, those two were dating, though they kept it quiet for the most part. Hermione was more than a little surprised about how open the young witches were about same-sex relationships, but she thought she hid it well. Between introductions and small talk with a vast number of students, whose names Hermione was sure she would not remember, the girls filled her in on the ongoing relationships in their year. They were most interested in Cherie’s exploits, because she was apparently dating both Michael Rosier and Teddy Potter, and rumor had it neither boy knew about the other. After nearly an hour of mingling and introductions, the girls moved toward the dance-floor, where a live band was playing swing and alternating with someone playing jazz on a saxophone.

Hermione had learned to swing dance as a child, along with brief stints of ballet and tap (her mother had thought that dance lessons might cure her of her love of books, and encourage her to make new friends), but had not had a reason to practice in years. She turned down several offers to dance in favor of watching the acrobatics of the older students. She recognized most of them, now, but could remember only a few of their names.

Natalia Grousovich was giving some sort of exhibition with Nicolette Fortescue. They were the girls she had noticed in the hall wearing little more than scarves and skimpy metal lattice-things, and must, Hermione thought, have charmed each other to be feather-light, because there was no way either girl should be able to flip the other around so easily. Sylvia Nott, a Slytherin prefect, was dancing only slightly more sedately with Altaf Shafiq, the head boy, and the Gryffindor Terrors were engaged in some kind of weird three-way dance which seemed too coordinated not to be choreographed, but too ridiculous and complex to _have_ been. In any case, there was a lot of spinning and clapping and yelling ‘Hey!’ out of time with the music. At one point they were throwing a girl who looked like she was about twelve between them – Hermione hoped she had volunteered. Lily and Tammie were together in a corner, out of the way, and Anamaria had apparently cornered Damocles Smith, as she was dragging him out on the floor as well.

After some time, the band switched to a slower song, then segued into a waltz, and most of the active dancers retired to the sidelines, or the next room, which held the refreshment table. The fourth-year Slytherin boys had apparently decided to come, at least for a little while, as Edmond appeared at Hermione’s side and asked her to join him on the floor. She agreed with a smile – she was certain she could handle a waltz. She had not noticed when the first-years left the party, but she supposed curfew must have come and gone, because not a minute into her first dance of the evening, all hell broke loose, in the form of a Gryffindor sending a Dancing Feet Jinx directly at her partner. His friends retaliated from the sidelines, and Hermione found herself in the last place she had planned to be this evening – in the midst of a melee, surrounded by potential enemies on all sides. Sedgwick, she thought irrelevantly as she cast her shield charm, would have killed her.

She quickly realized, trying to fight her way to a corner, that a melee was nothing like a duel. She was fairly certain that no one was actually aiming at her, but that didn’t mean that unexpected jinxes and hexes would not be deflected at her at odd angles, and it was nearly impossible to defend against randomly-colored jets of light with no clues as to what kind of spell they might be. She tried to dodge most of them, and was lucky enough that the few things she couldn’t dodge were caught by her shield. The corner was, she found, occupied by Lily and Tammie, who had apparently still been nearby on the dance floor. They were watching the madness unfold, several Slytherins fighting back-to-back against the Terrors and their Gryffindor friends, who were in turn trying to fend off intervention by irate Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws.

Fortescue and Grousovich seemed to be having almost as good a time fighting as they had dancing, dipping and dodging around each other and sending curses indiscriminately as they did so. As they began to draw serious fire, the Yaxley sisters made their way out to help them, and they formed another defensive knot, focused on taking out the main contenders. This group, as it had the head girl and arguably the two most attractive girls at the party, began to attract more and more upperclassmen, until at least twelve prefects (and about twenty other sixth and seventh years) were presenting a united front against all other factions.

They pushed the Terrors and the Slytherin retaliators into different corners of the ballroom in short order, and Tammie pointed out that Hermione should probably go: The excitement was more or less done, and the professors would be in to hand out punishments soon. Hermione thanked the other girl for the reminder, and slipped out of Hufflepuff, disillusioning herself just in time to see Professor Sprout, looking as angry as Hermione had ever seen her, storming down the hall.

…

It was just after midnight when Hermione reached her bedroom. Tom was there, apparently meditating in what had already become his usual armchair. Bellatrix was sprawled out on the floor, still in her party dress, working on an essay. The younger girl looked up as Hermione opened the door and reversed her Disillusionment charm.

Bellatrix cried out in shock, breaking Tom’s concentration and causing him to send a look of irritation at her.

“Did I not tell you that you could only work here if you could be _quiet_? Hello, Hermione.”

“Hello, Tom. What’s wrong, Bellatrix?”

“Hermione? …It’s nothing… you just… startled me.” Hermione fixed the child with a stare that said clearly that her lies had not been believed. “Fine! You looked like Cassie, okay?”

“Cassiopeia Rosier? I suppose she does, a bit. But Cassiopeia was taller, and her eyes were a darker green,” said Tom.

“I know that!” snapped Bellatrix. “As I said, it just startled me, for a moment.”

“I’m sorry, Bee. I forgot I even had the glamours on,” Hermione said in what she thought was a soothing tone, dispelling the aforementioned charms. “Why are you still wearing your dress? You left with the other first-years, didn’t you?”

The girl nodded, apparently happy to change the subject. “Yes, but I missed you at the party and Tom didn’t get to see it, so I thought I’d wait for you.” She stood and spun in a circle, the black skirt flaring out to reveal green panels.

“Very cute,” Hermione approved. Tom rolled his eyes.

“I had fairy-wings and a sparkle charm, too. Allie King was doing them in the cloakroom. But they wore off a little while ago.”

“I’m sure you were adorable.”

“Try fae,” said Tom. He sent Hermione an image of Bellatrix appearing at her door, looking like some sort of demonic trick-or-treater, with black and silver wings, dripping sparks of black fire when she moved. She was grinning from ear to ear, and there was something about her smile that said she was planning mischief.

“I see. What are you working on?”

“Potions essay,” said Bellatrix. “Two feet on the proper steps for brewing the Boil Cure Potion. It’s so boring. Did the Gryffindors hex you?”

“No, no one got me, though it did devolve into a melee. Sprout looked angrier than I thought she could, but I escaped before she saw me. And you’ve left out all the preliminary safety checks,” Hermione added, looking over Bellatrix’s six inches of perfectly calligraphed (albeit largely written) instructions for making the potion in question. “Don’t grumble, it will get you closer to the length requirement. Imagine you’re telling someone who’s never made a potion how to do it, step-by-step, and write it all down. Honestly,” she added, looking at Tom, “Sometimes I question the decisions of some of our professors to go into teaching.”

“Mr. Stibbons isn’t that bad,” Bellatrix protested, “He just didn’t tell us to do it like that.”

“Who’s Mr. Stibbons?”

“Slughorn’s apprentice,” Tom answered. “Sluggy makes him teach the first and second years, and about half of third year. He’s never going to finish his Mastery, because then Slughorn would have to start teaching kiddies again.”

“What on Earth does Slughorn do with his days, if he’s only teaching the upperclassmen?”

“No one knows. It’s one of the Great Mysteries of Hogwarts,” Tom smirked.

“What are you doing?”

“What was that charming muggle phrase? Casing the joint?” Hermione nodded. “Casing the joint, and making a list of runes to look up. There are more enchantments on the foundations than I expected, and I can’t tell what most of them do.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. He sounded put out, but she was rather reassured by the fact that Tom couldn’t just wave his hand and have a new room appear. She settled into her own armchair, opening her bootleg copy of _The Nature of Thought_ to the first chapter and finding a clean page in her enchanted notebook. Mind magic was infinitely more interesting than writing yet another Charms essay on a topic she had studied months ago, and anyway, she would have most of Sunday for homework.

…

Thea joined Lily and Tammie in the corner just after Hermione slipped away. “I still think we should have invited her to the sleepover tonight.”

“Come off it, Thea!” Lily said in the most exasperated tone she could muster. “You were outvoted.” It was true. Thea, Aggie, and Lina had been in favor of bringing the new Slytherin into their group at once, but the Hufflepuffs had been wary, and Tammie had voted with her girlfriend instead of her roommate. “The only reason you want to be her friend is that it will irritate your brother, anyway.”

“Yes, and? She’s a Slytherin. I doubt she would mind. She shouldn’t have to spend _all_ her time with Riddle if she doesn’t want to. And Aggie and Lina said she seemed normal enough yesterday.”

“What are you lot arguing about?” Aggie joined them as Professor Sprout entered the Common Room and began questioning the head boy and girl.

“Thea’s still going on about not letting Hermione come to the sleepover,” Tammie explained.

“Oh,” Aggie was quiet for a short moment. “You have to admit it, Thea, we were outvoted. And I’ve thought about it a bit more. Maybe it’s for the best. I mean, it’s not like we would be letting a Snake into one of _our_ common rooms overnight. I do kind of get why the Hufflepuffs said no.”

“ _Thank you_. It’s not that we don’t like her, we just don’t know her. Give us a week or two, and maybe she can come to the official sleepover, instead of the we’re-too-drunk-to-sneak-back-post-party sleepover,” Tammie offered.

Thea gave in with an overly dramatic sigh. “Fine. You win. Where’s the firewhisky?”

The others laughed. “It’s in the usual place, but wait until Sprout is gone!” the Hufflepuff warned. The usual place was under a couch in the fourth-years’ parlor.

Hufflepuff house, like Slytherin, had individual rooms for its students, but unlike Slytherin, each year also had a co-ed shared living-space called a parlor. These branched off of the main Common Room, and the bedrooms branched off of them in turn, all round, like a series of bubbles. The thinking was that Hufflepuff as a house was so enthusiastically social that students ought to have plenty of places to gather, but also a refuge from the rest of the house should they need it. One could not maintain constant friendliness with no recourse to privacy. Thea liked that philosophy better than the one which governed Ravenclaw’s dorms: each student ought to have a roommate, because that way someone will notice if a student starts acting oddly or getting too obsessed with their current project.

“I’m going to go say goodbye to Les. I think the party’s pretty much over, anyway.” Sprout had dismissed most of the students, and was now herding the main perpetrators – the Gryffindor Terrors and Slytherin fourth and fifth year boys (save Riddle, who, as promised, had not showed) – out into the corridor. Presumably they had been given detentions, but the Gryffindors looked unfussed. The Slytherins looked mutinous.

“See you in an hour, then,” Aggie called after her. Thea made a rude gesture and kept moving. She liked Aggie, and Lina, too, more than the Hufflepuffs, but given a choice she would have associated with Cassie Rosier or Maris David, who were a year ahead of her in Slytherin, or maybe third-years Allie King and Aradia Prewett instead. They were cleverer, and the younger girls were downright mischievous (and therefore fun). Tammie had been decent company before she started dating Lily, but since then she had become rather irritating.

If Thea was honest, irritating Scorpius was the _second_ reason she wanted to befriend Hermione. The first was that she wanted to get to know the Slytherin girl. If what Aggie and Lina had said was true, the new girl was both brilliant and “Slytherin” (read: manipulative and sly). She could hold a decent conversation even with Lina (who was not the brightest Light Charm) without being overly sarcastic and snarky (a feat which Thea often had trouble with), and yet had somehow managed to charm Tom Riddle, who was never _not_ cutting at the very least. So Hermione was interesting, and Thea thought that she might be a good candidate for a close friend in her own year, especially given that she knew she should truly have been in Slytherin from the beginning. She had insisted that the Hat place her in Ravenclaw only because she did not want to be in the same House as her brother, and knew that he would never be placed anywhere else but Slytherin. She suspected part of the reason she had no close friends among the other fourth-year girls because they knew she was really a snake at heart.

She mulled these thoughts over as she looked for her boyfriend, trying to let them float away when she found him and he swept her into a quick spin and a kiss. (His family might have been a generation away from being acceptably pureblood candidates for marriage, thus her older brother would never approve the match, but even Abraxas would give Les points for style and grace.) She would have to find another opportunity to spend time with the new girl, she supposed. It really was a shame Aggie had ended up partnered with her in potions. Not only was Thea smarter (and therefore better tolerated by Tom Riddle), Aggie was too easily disconcerted by the kind of games Slytherins played amongst themselves. Thea had grown up with them. Then Les realized she wasn’t paying attention and bit her lip. She smiled at him, and her thoughts turned to more pleasurable things, like whether the cloakroom might be unoccupied, and how she might most beneficially spend the next hour of her time. After all, it wasn’t as though the girls would really _miss_ her company. They would just remark upon it and exchange knowing little looks and jokes about getting caught in a broom closet.

Thea shrugged internally. There were worse things than being caught snogging in a cloakroom. She dragged her boy away through the much-thinned crowd, a smile dancing across her lips.


	56. Part 3: A Quiet Sunday

8 September 1940

Hermione woke late (at least compared to her weekday schedule) on her second Sunday back at Hogwarts, without an alarm for the first time all week, feeling properly refreshed and, best of all, without Tom Riddle hovering over her with a knife. Some honest, _bloodless_ excitement and then a quiet night in, reading a fascinating book, had been exactly what she needed. For the first time in what felt like ages, maybe the first time since she had arrived in 1940, she felt like she was exactly where she should be. She quieted the guilt and anxiety which immediately welled up at this thought (she _didn’t_ belong in this place _or_ this time, not really) and sighed, finally opening her eyes. The feeling really had been too good to last.

She took a nice long shower and even attempted to duplicate the charms Anamaria had used on her hair for the party (and was more than slightly successful) while she listed out for herself the tasks she wished to accomplish over the course of the day.

She had already missed breakfast, but she would meet up with the rest of her class at lunch to attend the Dueling Club exhibition matches. And then she had that Charms essay to write, and one for Transfiguration, and one for Runes. There would also be a quiz in Runes on the meanings of the Futhark symbols and their uses, and she still needed to look into the status of Arithmancy as a field. It was all well and good to refuse to use anything newer than a 17th Century analytic, but she was curious. And perhaps she could find some tips on building that cursed mirror-trap.

She made a face in the mirror as she considered Divination. She didn’t even know what to do about that course, since she had well and truly sidetracked Professor McKinnon the previous day, but at least he had not assigned any homework. Sedgwick hadn’t, either, and Leicaster had just warned them that she would ask them to complete as much of a star chart as possible in their next practical, and she would have analyzed their current skill level and discuss the course outline at their next theory lesson. Hermione supposed she should brush up on the most recent star charts, as the ones she could produce from memory were about fifty years out of date. But that wouldn’t take long. 

In fact, provided that the Dueling Club thing didn’t last too long, she would have plenty of time to finish all of her homework after the exhibitions, which left her the next three hours at least to do whatever she liked… such as take a walk. She had only been where she needed to be for classes so far, and if there was one thing the twins had managed to teach her during her interminably long third year, it was that it always, always paid to know your way around the Castle. She had no idea what would change in the next fifty years or how out of date her (previously extensive) knowledge of it was. She needed to refresh her familiarity with the ‘secret’ passages and trick stairs and where the most irritating (read: loudest and most likely to snitch) portraits were hung. Landmarks were likely to have changed, and it was highly probable that there were other passages and doorways which had been blocked off over the years. Perhaps Tom and Bellatrix would want to go exploring with her.

…

Much to Hermione’s irritation, neither of her preferred exploring companions were in their rooms, and worse, Scorpius, Edmond, and Leo had spotted her just as she was leaving the Common Room.

“Miss Granger! Hermione! Wait up!”

She pretended not to have heard them, and slipped out through the concealed door, but Edmond was quick enough that he caught up before she managed to turn a corner and vanish.

“Hello, Edmond.”

“Hi, Hermione. Wait up a mo. The others will be along –“

Before he could finish his sentence, the other boys stumbled into the hall, Leo laughing at something Scorpius had said.

“Hello, Hermione,” Leo said with a formal nod of his head. At Hogwarts in general, and with housemates in particular, informality was acceptable and even appropriate. But proper Black manners were hard to shake. It had been all he could do to greet his peers by their first names his first year, and three years in, he still hadn’t managed to shake the habit of bowing entirely.

“Wotcher, Mione,” was Scorpius’ greeting. “Did you not hear us calling?”

“Erm…” Hermione didn’t want to offend them, but she also did not want their company. “No?”

“Thought you mustn’t have,” the Malfoy boy responded with a shit-eating grin. The girl really was a terrible liar, but at least she tried not to be blatantly impolite. “So what are you up to this fine morning? And where’s your partner in crime?”

“Off making trouble of his own, I presume,” Hermione managed to recover with a smile, “I thought I’d go for a walk and see if I could get to know the castle a bit before lunch. I’ve only really seen the classrooms, after all.”

“We would be pleased to show you around, if you prefer,” Leo offered smoothly. Edmond just nodded. He had found that he rather fancied this odd new Slytherin, and correspondingly found himself more often than not tongue-tied in her presence. He didn’t think she had noticed, yet. After all, it had been only a week, and she didn’t know him from Merlin. Maybe he would have had the nerve to say something if they had made it through that dance the night before, but they hadn’t, and now here he was, feeling all awkward again.

The girl’s smile vanished. “Erm, no, that’s okay. Thank you for the offer, it’s very kind, but… well… I’d prefer to be alone.”

The boys exchanged looks of various degrees of confusion. Then Edmond cleared his throat. “Right then, we’ll see you at lunch, I suppose. Come on, fellows.” _Fellows?_ He immediately thought to himself. _Way to sound like a total lunatic._ Scorp and Leo both gave him looks of disdain as he attempted to lead them out of the corridor.

Then Leo remembered something. “Miss Granger,” _oops_ , “Hermione, I mean. Do you know how to get back to the Great Hall, if you get lost?”

The girl’s answer was immediate and sounded as though it was second nature. “Of course: ask a portrait. Much more helpful than students.”

Leo grinned. “Exactly. See you at lunch, then.”

“Bye, Mione,” Scorpius added. Edmond waved nervously, and the boys trooped up the stairs.

Hermione waited a moment so that she would not be following immediately on their heels, then followed. After all, that was presumably the fastest way out of the dungeons, and she preferred to begin her explorations from the Entry Hall. She had not had to ask a portrait for directions since her second week, and did not want to ruin that record.

…

“She’s hiding something,” hissed Scorpius as soon as they reached the top of the first staircase.

“I agree. She said ‘ask a portrait’ like she’d been here before,” Leo confirmed, “And I’ve been watching her in classes. She knows more than she should.”

“She has to be up to something. Why go to the trouble of befriending Riddle and then turn down our company?”

“Maybe she really does just want to be alone,” suggested Edmond.

“Don’t be daft, lover boy. Weren’t you the one who said she couldn’t possibly be American?”

Edmond made a face at his friend. “Don’t call me that, blondie. And I still don’t think she’s American. But didn’t you say that you overheard Aggie telling Thea that her parents died this summer? Maybe she just wants some privacy.”

“If my parents died over the summer, I think I’d celebrate,” Leo noted, but Scorpius was quiet.

His father had died several years ago, and his mother their second year, leaving his older brother as the head of his house. “Maybe,” he said. “But that doesn’t explain all the little ways that she acts like she knows what she’s doing, when she shouldn’t. Like the ‘ask a portrait’ thing.”

“So what, you think she’s really British, _and_ she’s been to Hogwarts before?” Edmond tried to fill his voice with scorn, but he couldn’t quite manage it, probably because he secretly agreed, even if he didn’t know how it was possible.

“Sure, why not? It’s not like every child in Britain comes here. Maybe she’s visited or something.”

“That wouldn’t make sense though, Scorp. She would have had to visit an awfully lot to know about the portraits.” Leo was really hung up on the portraits.

“Fine!” said Scorpius. “New idea – You saw her last night. Maybe she’s really Cassie Rosier in disguise. She ran away from the Goyles and changed her name and is hiding under really heavy glamours, or human transfiguration or something.”

“That’s even stupider than the last idea, blondie. Why would Cassie Rosier run away, and then come back to school, of all things? And anyway, she couldn’t fake not knowing anything about Society the way she did on the train. I mean, I still can’t shake the training entirely. Can you see me trying to pretend that I know nothing about any of the Noble Houses or the Wizengamot? Because that’s what Cassie would look like trying to fake it.”

“Nevermind that she _acts_ nothing like Cassie,” added Edmond. “I mean, I never had a class with her, but she’s always seemed much more subdued than Hermione. I still like the parents-in-Azkaban theory.”

“Fine! I never said it was a _good_ idea. Anyway, it has to be something. And I will figure it out eventually.”

“Of course you will,” said Leo in an entirely patronizing tone.

“Stop patronizing me, you prat.”

“I wasn’t being patronizing. Ed, was I being patronizing?”

Edmond hid a grin. “No, didn’t sound condescending at all to me.”

“You’re both prats,” Scorpius declared, stomping away from them.

Edmond and Leo shared a laugh as they continued on toward the library. It didn’t matter really, they were all going to the same place. And it was fun jerking Malfoy’s chain.

…

The Great Hall was abuzz with excitement as the students discussed (and laid bets on) the outcomes of the impending Instructor Duels. (Hermione was beginning to think that the 1940s as a whole had a bit of a gambling problem.)

Hermione was somewhat late to lunch, and rather put out that she could not locate her favorite passage from the library to the dungeons. She used to use it to get to Potions on time, but it would have been even more useful to get to the library. It cut nearly three minutes out of the walk, or would have, if it had existed. On the other hand, she had found two new (to her) rooms, one of which seemed to be used for some sort of dueling practice, but the other was entirely abandoned, even by the house elves, if the layer of dust was to be believed. And she had remembered on her way back to the Great Hall that the passage Fred and George had used, behind the mirror, would still be open, since it had been the twins who collapsed it. She could finally figure out where it led to in Hogsmeade. But that would have to wait for another day.

For some reason that was never explained to Hermione, Cadmus Avery and Dominic Nott had joined the fourth-year boys, taking her (and Bellatrix’s) usual seat. After exchanging greetings, and a bit of budging along the benches to make some space (Hermione ended up seated uncomfortably close to Scorpius and Leo, to Edmond’s relief and irritation), they returned to their previous conversation: debating the most likely outcome of the first duel, between Leicaster and McKinnon.

This was made difficult by the fact that most of the students had only had one or two classes with the Astronomy professor, and thus had no basis for estimating her abilities. Hermione, thinking over what she knew of the professors, decided that Leicaster would probably beat McKinnon. McKinnon was just too _nice_. She couldn’t see him going for the throat. Scorpius, Cadmus, and Dominic agreed with her, but Tom, surprisingly, sided with Leo and Edmond when they pointed out that McKinnon was in charge of Discipline for the school. No matter how nice he was, he could read a person like a book, and could be very authoritative (and apparently reasonably effective) if he thought it was necessary.

Hermione dropped out of the debate, and instead focused on eavesdropping on nearby conversations.

The most fervid discussions surrounded the Flitwick-Sedgwick match – No one could seem to decide whether Flitwick’s professional experience as a duelist would outweigh Sedgwick’s auror training and dirty tricks. Sedgwick was the more hardened fighter, but Flitwick was trained to fight better opponents, while Sedgwick had more experience with common criminals and battle mages, neither of whom were known for their creativity.

It seemed to be a given that Madam Turner would win the final match, since whoever she fought would already be a bit drained from their first match. Few had seen her fight, but those who had said she was vicious and brutal, and that her reputation as the most terrifying adult in the school was well-deserved. The only students who thought that matching the Healer against the winner of the second match was fair, were first-years, who didn’t know any better. Most of them were informed of the better Kitty Turner legends as they made their way to the Dueling Arena.

The students settled into their seats (Bellatrix had spent the morning with the other first-year girls and dragged them over to sit with the fourth-years, much to Tom’s irritation), and Professor Flitwick, his voice magically amplified, welcomed them to the first Dueling Club Meeting of the year. He explained the format of the duels. It seemed as though Leicaster and McKinnon would be demonstrating the sort of thing the students would be learning, International Dueling Commission spells, rules and regulations. Flitwick and Sedgwick would be using something called the Belgian Rules, which the professor explained allowed a wider range of offensive spells, as well as hand-to-hand combat, but deadly force was prohibited, which meant that some of the IDC spells, which could have deadly consequences, were disallowed. There was a flurry of whispering at this. Turner would take on the winner in the most dangerous battle, Bombay style.

The older students broke out into open discussion and speculation at this. It took some time for Flitwick to regain control of the arena to explain that the Bombay rules were that anything goes, up to and including Unforgivables. Tom whispered that a Bombay Duel was the only place it was currently legal to use an Unforgivable. It was basically a no-holds-barred, all-out war, on a very small scale. Madam Turner stood at this point to assure the students that they would _not_ be using the Cruciatus or the Killing Curse, nor would she break her edict against the offensive use of Healing spells. Tom said this was probably because they didn’t really want each other in pain or dead, so the Unforgivables wouldn’t work. Not using the Healing Spells was probably a concession for making her opponent fight back-to-back battles, added Leo.

Flitwick went on to explain that, as he was competing, Professor Shylock would be commentating, and Headmaster Dippet would be acting as referee. Professor Shylock explained that there would be a fivefold time dilation in effect, so that the students would be able to see what was going on, and she would have time to narrate, and with that, Professors Leicaster and McKinnon climbed onto the stage.

On the Headmaster’s mark, the professors bowed to each other, their movements oddly slowed. Their banter was distorted by the time dilation as well, and it was difficult to tell what spells they were using, at least from the incantations. Shylock’s commentary was a great help. Overall, Hermione thought, the duel seemed strangely polite, and escalated slowly, as they worked their way through the less dangerous IDC spells.

Leicaster had struck first, with a silent Disarming Charm, which McKinnon had blocked handily. He retaliated with a stunner, which she had dodged. That set the pace for the match. Leicaster made better use of the space, gracefully sidestepping most hexes and jinxes, and cancelling them quickly when they did land. By not using a Shield charm, she freed her wand to send volley after volley of her own spells at her opponent, about three offensive spells to every one of McKinnon’s, which kept him largely on the defensive. She broke through his shield with Blasting Hex, one of the strongest allowed by the Commission. It was dissipated by the shield, but followed almost immediately by another Disarming Charm, which sent Professor McKinnon’s wand flying from his hand.

At this point, most of the crowd, and Leicaster as well, apparently thought the match was over. She started to walk across the stage, presumably to return McKinnon’s wand. His hand was still outstretched, however and she fell to the stage with a sharp word and a twist of his wrist. That got everyone’s attention. Tom, especially, was looking more interested than he had for the rest of the match.

Professor Shylock explained that it had been a wandless Tripping Jinx, and was perfectly legal, as was the wandless Summoning Charm that pulled McKinnon’s wand back to his hand. He dodged Leicaster’s retaliatory jinx, and managed to hit her with an Incarcerating Hex before she could get back on her feet. This was followed by a Full Body Bind, which prohibited her from speaking or moving her wand, and after a few long seconds, the Headmaster declared the first match officially over, to great applause.

The second match had an entirely different tone than the first, and was not at all like anything the students, when they were debating the relative strengths of each professor’s approach, had expected. No one had thought it might be _fun._

Most students had not realized it at first, but by limiting themselves to non-lethal force, the professors had more or less agreed only to use schoolyard jinxes and hexes, along with tactical spells they could use on themselves. The students were highly amused to see their normally professional instructors with pasta for hair, missing a nose, legs unable to support them, arms turned to jelly, eyes glued shut, knees reversed, teeth overgrown, and with any number of other small, non-dangerous physical effects. They had cast Featherlight Charms on themselves, much like Fortescue and Grousovich had done at the Hufflepuff party, and were bouncing around the arena as though on the moon.

Both professors were good enough at their non-verbal finites to prolong the duel for nearly half an hour (over five minutes, on the stage), exchanging at least a hundred different spells (and Shylock pointed out after that they hadn’t repeated any, which was impressive in and of itself), but then they got serious. Sedgwick, with a face full of tentacles, dodged enough jinxes in a row to complete what Shylock said was a complex battleward. It changed the game, disallowing the casting of any new magic, even a finite, though all other spells would remain in effect.

So it was with great amusement that the students watched their tiny Charms professor, with donkey ears and a tail, square off against their tentacle-faced battle-axe of a Defense professor in a ridiculous, weightless muggle brawl, like some kind of parody of a d-list martial arts movie, though of course none of them could make that connection, since over-the-top wirework kung-fu movies hadn’t been invented yet. At one point, Flitwick even made the “come at me” hand gesture. Hermione had to send Tom a memory of some horrible movie she had caught on late night telly, just so someone would understand exactly _why_ this was so funny, aside from the obvious.

Almost another half an hour passed as the professors grappled and broke away from each other, Flitwick’s size apparently more of an evasive advantage than Sedgwick had expected in a physical fight, but eventually the larger man did manage to pin the smaller, and Flitwick conceded.

They shook hands and jumped off the stage, dispelling the remaining jinxes once they left the wards. There was a short break between matches while Professor Shylock dispelled Professor Sedgwick’s battleward, and strengthened the protections on the stage for the Sedgwick-Turner match. The anticipation in the stands was palpable. Several students, including the Slytherin contingent, cast Hawk-Eye Charms on themselves. They didn’t want to miss even the tiniest detail of the coming duel. (After a few minutes of puppy-dog eyes, Hermione cast the charm on the first-year girls as well. Tom silently made fun of her for caving.)

If the first match had been polite and the second had been fun, the third could only be described as Slytherin. It was fast-paced, even with the time dilation in effect. Hermione could only imagine how it felt _inside_ the wards. It was devious – each professor clearly had expectations in mind when they entered the ring, and layers of strategy in mind to counteract every counter-action they could think of. The first few minutes were nothing but half-completed and foiled gambits, with not a single spell landed.

And it was absolutely, without a doubt, the most _ruthless_ battle any of the students had ever seen. Turner and Sedgwick were very well matched in talent and experience. They fought like they meant it, casting everything silently, with the tiniest flicks of their wands to minimize the clues they sent to their opponents. Somehow, they even managed to control the color of their spells – all of Sedgwick’s were killing-curse green, while all of Turner’s were the red generally associated with stunning spells. The students had only Shylock’s word to distinguish whether these were actually Blasting Curses, the Curse of Ten Thousand Cuts, or the First Fear Curse. Almost everything the Runes professor named was deadly or incapacitating.

The duelists moved ceaselessly, never hesitating more than a second or two between spells. Turner created a translucent labyrinth around them, which Shylock said was magic made solid. It looked like ice. She vanished walls selectively in order to send spell after spell at Sedgwick, who was forced to dodge or raise his own shields or walls. Sedgwick raised himself a tower, momentarily gaining the high ground and a vantage-point from which to strike before Turner somehow destabilized it. He landed softly enough, catching himself in midair, but was trapped as Turner added a ceiling to her labyrinth.

In what appeared to be a last-ditch attempt to gain some breathing room and recoup, Sedgwick created spell-boxes of his own around himself and Turner. She grinned ferally, truly restricted for the first time since the match had begun, and Tom had the impression that she was no longer playing nice. He sent this thought to Hermione.

Sure enough, Turner reclaimed all of the magic she had tied up in her walls, overwhelming the barrier Sedgwick had cast around her, and conjured a giant bell-jar over Sedgwick. Another flick of her wand, and his eyes began to bulge. He vanished his walls and sent the strongest Reductor Curse he could at the glass surrounding him, not bothering to hide its color. The glass cracked, then imploded with a sound like a thunderclap, and he fell to the ground, bleeding from a number of superficial cuts to his hands and face. Before the glass finished settling, he was hit with a sparkling black curse. Turner maintained it for what seemed like several seconds, then let it drop. Shylock held her tongue as she waited, like the students, with bated breath for the outcome.

Sedgwick slowly raised his wand, and stunned his left hand with his right. It was over not three minutes after Tom had said Turner had gotten serious, and most of that was the time it took for Sedgwick to stun himself.

The observers were absolutely silent for a long moment. The quiet was broken, to Hermione’s surprise, by Tom, who began clapping enthusiastically just before Shylock announced that _that_ was an effectively applied Imperius Curse. The Arena broke out into muttering, and more than a few suspicious looks were thrown in the direction of the Slytherin fourth-years. It was hardly necessary for Dippet to declare the match over, though he did.

Turner revived Sedgwick and healed his cuts while he glared at her for Imperiusing him. Flitwick invited anyone who was interested to join him in the Charms classroom for a discussion of the spells and tactics used in the three duels. The Slytherins retired to their dorms to do homework and read, or in Scorpius’s case, to try to convince Hermione to help them work out the timing for their Potions project (the trip to the library had confirmed that the Slytherin boys were, indeed, already behind).

She refused, of course, though she did eventually suggest that they should just start the Polyjuice over, much to Leo’s dismay. He had been the only one of the three who had thought that it was, perhaps, still salvageable. She smirked at him, and sneaked away to join Tom and Bellatrix in her room as the boys cursed their Potions professor behind her. The boys weren’t really so different from Harry and Ron, really. But that didn’t mean she would do their work for them, and as far as she could see, figuring out how to control the timing was the whole point of their Potions project.

Hermione settled into her armchair with her Charms essay and a conjured lap desk, and worked diligently through her assignments, pausing on occasion to correct Bellatrix’s work or comment silently on Tom’s essays while he spent his breaks enchanting notebooks and explaining the necessary process to Bellatrix, or flipping idly through the grimoires he had brought out of the Chamber. It was the least stressful day she had had in a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So ends Part 3 - the first weekend. 
> 
> This project is not entirely abandoned. I have every intention of finishing it eventually. There's an outline for the remainder of the term (through Christmas, which will be the end of the book). There are even several chapters written already (though they are missing important sections in between). That said, it is on hiatus, as I've been focusing more on the Mary Potter series for the past six months or so, and I'm not sure exactly when I'll be getting back to it :/

**Author's Note:**

> I do not claim to own anything I do not actually own, but that doesn't really matter, since I'm not making money off of this, nor do I plan to do so in the future.


End file.
